


Displacement

by ShinkirouSacril



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Agent AU, Agent Jared, Bottom Jensen, F/M, M/M, Nice! JDM, Non-Graphic Violence, Tags and rating will evolve with story, Top Jared, agent Jensen, curious! Jared, dub-con, hurt!Jensen, protective!Jared
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinkirouSacril/pseuds/ShinkirouSacril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared was the very picture of an academically inclined scholar bound for success. Then he was unwillingly recruited. Being a special agent was absolutely not fun, not that he was inclined to find out in the first place.<br/>Dead men walking, because they're, well, legally dead. Between boring stakeouts and intense "workouts", between a past that is not quite past, a future that is not much of a future. What would, could prevail?<br/>Trying my hands at a lighter tone. Each chapter may be read as an individual story. Details inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Plain Sight

**Author's Note:**

> So it’s an agent AU. I kind of was inspired by "The Listener", but the story thus far ended up rather different so I've decided not to put it as The Listener AU. I've also taken some liberties with the characters (age, nationality etc) and settings, although I try my best not to get too OOC.  
> I always have problems with continuities, so I shall try to write each chapter such that they can be read as a standalone. Hopefully it will remain readable despite long time-gaps between updates.  
> And finally, the Disclaimer: I wish I do but reality is unfortunately cruel. I do not own any of the characters. All events and scenarios portrayed are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to any actual events are entirely coincidental.

Jared Padalecki was pretty much an epitome of a student slated for success. He got into his dream college--Havard--on a full ride. Sure it came with assiduous work and self-discipline, and sometimes pushing a little harder that he would have liked. However Jared's work ethic was one thing he was proud of, so no biggie. Besides, Jared considered himself fairly well-balanced. He was popular in schools, had both the charm and brains and a to-die-for physique. An awesome girlfriend equally talented and also his senior. Moreover though only in his first year, he was adapting well enough to have utmost confidence in graduating _cum laude_ with a prefix. What more could a student ask for?

Looking back, all the trouble started with an exchange student, Thomas Kent. Jared couldn't help but guffaw when he first heard the last name. Kent? You kidding? And they subsequently became fast friends. It was the classic "birds of a feather" logic. Shared interests, shared ambitions, and voila! They had ended up spending copious amounts of time around each other. Once when they had a little too much to drink, Thomas accidentally outed himself. Apparently he had a boyfriend called Jason. Last name was Teague or something. In return Jared decided to share some very awkward incident involving himself and his then-friend now-girlfriend Gen, lost luggage and a train. Though in all fairness Thomas--always Thomas, since they had another mutual friend called Tom--did not nearly reveal enough about this Jason guy to sate Jared's curiosity. Merely a passing comment about him being "too goddamned pretty for his own good". For starters, Jared would very much like to know where in the world was Jason. A photo would be highly appreciated.

Sometimes Jared did have a nagging feeling that something was off about Thomas. Something he couldn't quite place a finger to. But whatever. It's not like he had all that energy to spare for such intangible hunches, what with his schedule bursting with activities and schoolwork.

Besides, he had another little "personal problem" on the side.

That started on a typical winter morning, the sort where the Sun took forever to peek out from the horizon, only all too quickly cocooning itself in thick dark clouds. The air was chilly and damp with drizzle, the sky gloomy without the benefit of a pristine snow scene the following morn.

Jared and Thomas typically took refuge in the school gym, though it was hardly a refuge at all. See, both boys were in excellent shape. Toned biceps, washboard abs, and rock-hard pectorals that were absolutely drool-worthy. Not to mention those model-grade long and lean-muscled legs. Plus Jared had those famous puppy eyes and adorable dimples, Thomas had his baby blues and chiselled features. The direct result of the duo together plus work-out clothes was the gym being a tad crowded for such early hours of an otherwise undesirable morning. Anyway we digressed.

That particular morning Jared was doing the weights and Thomas on the treadmill. Jared _thought_ he heard Thomas say something, but it sounded weird. He listened closely, and the garbled message started to make a little sense, "When…staying…don’t know…"

Jared almost smashed his dumbbell onto his foot but at least he caught a few intact sentences, "Why do _I_ have to go to MIT?

Well, noting my _alumnus_ status there. I've even had to avoid the buildings near MIT campus!

But does it have to be Engineering? I don't even get the answer sheet! Right now I'm just memorizing the answer sheet and barely getting by.

Good. Luck. Anyway you know how Jeff views everything."

Admittedly, not really much sense in there. It would have been nothing out of the ordinary had this content been a conversational exchange. Except it sounded like Thomas' monologue, which was beyond disturbing. And when Jared looked over to the treadmills those crystal blues eyes were simply staring straight ahead into nothingness.

Jared opened his mouth, wanted to ask Thomas if the latter said anything, only to stop short as those startlingly blue eyes turned upon him, a sudden contemplative look in them. Thomas ultimately said nothing, so Jared figured it was probably just his own hyperactive imagination playing tricks.

It freaked Jared out initially, hearing Thomas in his head, because his immediate thought was that he had a subconscious crush on Thomas which was a totally unreasonable occurrence. Sure, Thomas was all good-looking and intelligent, but he had a certain condescendence which was really off-putting to Jared as far as relationships were concerned. It was not so much that Jared had anything against homosexuals. This was the twenty-first century and he was in Harvard for goodness sake! It was more of the fact that Jared already had a girlfriend whom he was in a very satisfying relationship with and had no intention of changing the status quo in his love-life.

And then that freakish phenomenon happened a few more times with other friends, culminating into that one time with Gen. Jared would later recall it as a typical spring weekend afternoon. He was lazing on the well-worn sofa of his and Gen's shared on-campus apartment, having just completed a particularly tough assignment. Just looking at Gen doing some clean-up when he thought he heard her ask "dinner". So without a second thought Jared just blurted out "Italian?" because he thought about celebrations and a treat. Her reaction was an instantaneous "What? Are you reading my thoughts or something?" Saturated in mirth and disbelief. This kind of cemented Jared's then still in-denial hypothesis that just maybe, he was a little "gifted" in more than conventional sense.

He kept quiet about it though. As open an environment as Harvard, it remained human nature to judge, and people feared by instinct what they were incapable of understanding. Besides, it was not like his gift caused him distress to the likes of characters in films or on TV. It was a far cry from a manifestation of any sort. Just a stray thought here and there that he was capable of picking up. Actually made Jared's life easier, since he could now tell what others were thinking at the moment as long as he kept his attention on them.

Strange, though, that it was in fact Thomas whom he could not "hear" from thereafter.

Speaking of Thomas in conjunction with media programmes, there were in fact a few recent occasions wherein Thomas really acted as though he were some shading character in a cliche cops show. There was one particularly memorable time when Jared caught Thomas leaning against the driver's side of a flashy-looking car. He thought it might have been a Jaguar. Then as the car sped off Thomas noticed Jared and forced a smile that screamed "suspicious". Then there was this other time when Jared was working on a sandbag and Thomas had coolly enquired if he had been affiliated with the 24th STS. Jared himself never was, but he'd had an uncle who was and taught them kids a few moves. Jared had to wonder how on Earth was Thomas able to tell. That question remained unanswered. However thus far all evidence Jared had were circumstantial, and it was not as if anything out of the ordinary was actually going on.

Then Jared got mired in too deep.

The day started off fairly innocuously. Thomas came knocking at his door to go gym together. Then he had suggested sparring with Jared which, while unusual, did not necessarily warrant alarm since Thomas had been decidedly impressed the few times he witnessed Jared with a sandbag. Besides, they had lot of fun. Thomas had some pretty amazing moves himself, although Jared countered nearly all of them with a fluidity that surprised even himself. Jared hung out with his usual study group sans Thomas in the library afterwards, and towards the evening they decided to head over to a nearby bar.

In retrospect Jared would blame all the alcohol in his blood for the route he took to get home and not noticing his assailant close in. Only when the cloth came over his nose and mouth did the smell of chloroform hit.

When Jared came to he was in a rank place, hog-tied, blind-folded and duct-taped. The place smelled damp and mouldy, mixed with the decaying smell of old blood and bodily excretions into a cocktail of nauseating horror. Likely a basement or some cabin by a lake, judging by the moisture. Jared strained his ears, only to hear murmurs he surmised as "definitely not English". Having gained some semblance of orientation, Jared tested his bonds, alarmed to find whoever tied him up knew what they were doing. It was practically impossible for him to Houdini his way out. Jared stopped struggling as he heard faint footsteps. He laid still as a corpse as a weak draft of moist but otherwise clean air blew into his face, indicative of someone’s arrival. A sharp kick to his guts--it really hurt in a way Jared never knew he could possibly hurt, by the way--had Jared curl up in foetal position, his unmanly scream muffled by the duct tape.

"You people at Interpol think we haven't notice you?" The person who said that had a very thick accent. English certainly was not his first language. It maybe sounded a little European, but it was not one Jared could place. So sue him, he was going for Pre-law, not Linguistics.

And Interpol? The hell?! He was just an ordinary college student! Since when was he even remotely linked to Interpol? He didn't recall having any such relatives either. Unless…had they mistaken him for Thomas? The two of them were, after all, around the same height. It was not that hard to confuse six feet three and six feet four. Damn, he knew there was something unusual about the guy!

The duct tape was unceremoniously torn off. Jared could not stifle a groan as the caustic tape tore cracks in his chapped lips.

“Now talk.” That voice growled, “Before I start to make you.”

Jared just wanted to tell them they had gotten the wrong guy. Yeah, there was this hanging possibility that they would probably kill him anyway, but Jared was hoping it would come with a lot less torture involved. He really wanted no part in the revolting recounts detailing the methods they had in mind. Or should he perhaps try to hold on and fervently pray for rescue to find him before he succumbed? He had too much to lose in dying.

Jared's internal debate had scarcely begun when there was a loud bang on the door, followed by a shout "CSIS!". He thought those guys were Canadian? Awesome, he must have been out longer than he'd thought.

There was a flurry of footsteps, towards him, away from him. Jared thought he heard a gun being loaded and then it was just seemingly endless gunshots.

Jared wanted to scream, wanted to cry for his Momma and run and hide. Instead, he could only lay there playing possum. In a bizarre moment of serenity amidst the chaos, Jared realized he could perfectly understand what his captors were thinking, even when outwardly they cursed in an unintelligible tongue. It was disconcerting though because he could only "hear" his captors. The other side to the gunfight was radio-silent.

After what felt like eternity the gunfire ceased. Footsteps indicated people fleeing the scene. Jared felt the blindfold slide off his face and saw something sea-green. Out of the corner of his eyes he glimpsed a silhouette giving chase, before everything faded to black.

Jared awoke to the full moon in his face, illuminating the forest floor he laid upon, gave it an otherworldly atmosphere. He saw no lake, no building, just muddy ground dampened by rain, trees with overgrown branches cast eerie shadows all around. Jared gave himself a mental pat for not wetting himself, before trying to sit up a little and subsequently turning sideways to hurl. Only after Jared emptied his stomach did he notice Thomas, or whatever his true name was. The guy was leaning against a car, expression obscured in the faint light. Jared recognized the vehicle as a Chrysler.

"I'm not sure how much you've known, but yeah, me and Jason, we're with CSIS." Thomas must have sensed Jared was awake, as he continued, "I'm really sorry we've gotten you involved. I'm afraid they've mistaken you for Jay." Jared assumed the Jay Thomas mentioned was Jason. As though reading his mind, Thomas gave Jared a small nod before he went on, "We were following up on some mafia family. Lost track of an informant down South, got a tip she was hiding out here. Pretty smart, I'd say, melding in amongst the upstanding citizens of the nation. The last place people would think of looking for someone the likes of her. We still lost her though. Those there." Thomas tilted his chin towards a faraway direction. Jared understood.

Thomas pulled open a car door. "Get in, I’ll bring you back to campus."

The woods turned out to be right next to the interstate, not Canada. They just sat in silence when Thomas spoke again, "We're leaving ASAP. Nothing else here. You don't have to worry, Jay was pretty persistent. None of those people lived to go running to the boss. Say what, we'd better get you check up first. CSIS'll cover the cost."

The check-up was surprisingly normal, and Jared was declared fit to go with nothing more than a few bruises.

"Aren't you guys suppose to wipe my memories or something? Or make sure I won't tell?" Jared joked as Thomas drove him back to the apartment.

"Well, I do consider you a friend."

"Yeah, friends."

A month or so later, and life went back to normal for Jared. Thomas left. Probably Jason as well from wherever he was, and Jared really had to stop thinking about the guy. They never contacted one another. As he got into bed beside Gen that night, Jared could not help but think perhaps this was for the best. Whatever other world that Thomas belonged, it was worlds apart from his.


	2. Stranger in His Own Skin

The manifestation occurred shortly after Summer Break, crept up so subtly onto him Jared barely noticed. He was in one of the halls doing a mid-semester quiz, all the while picking up ideas from his peers. He had gotten better during the summer, at reading people that is. Now he was capable of listening to multiple individuals at once, albeit in fragments. Out of the blue he felt something slide down his upper lip area. He glanced at his paper, just long enough to catch sight of a drop of bright red before losing consciousness.

When Jared came to he was in an unfamiliar hospital room. A private room very typical of the standard hospital room. White walls, trolley bed, the emergency button by the bed. What was unusual was the fact that he was handcuffed to the bed, and there was a stranger who was most definitely _not_ an orderly at the foot of his bed. Needless to say, Jared was slightly more than freaked out.

The stranger was built. Tall, barrel-chested with peppery beard and sideburns streaked with silver, astonishingly kind eyes aberrant from the solidity and adamantine in the rest of him. He had on a black dress shirt, expensive-looking grey slacks and a matching jacket over one arm. A luxurious watch clasped upon his left wrist. Brown eyes looked steadily into Jared's own hazels as the stranger introduced himself, "Jeffrey Dean Morgan. But you can call me Jeff. Welcome to Vancouver."

Vancouver?! Now that was a bombshell. Jared believed his brows had just disappeared into his fringe. And yes, he was aware he did not have a fringe right now.

So _now_ he's across the border. Not simply across but on the other coast. There were too many questions that Jared yearned to have answered, and he knew getting sedated would only delay him in his quest. So he forced himself to take deep breaths. "I'm afraid I shall insist on Jeffrey. Jared Padalecki, but you probably know that already. And I will probably offer a handshake if I weren't so...held up." The handcuffs clinked as Jared moved his arms in emphasis.

"Ah, yes, those are just precautions. Some individuals panic in similar situations and hurt themselves. Or others. But seeing as you are now, I suppose they're not needed." Jeffrey seemed genuinely surprised by Jared's composure, and produced a key from one of his pockets. Soon enough Jared was sitting upright on the bed, rubbing his wrists as Jeffrey went on, "Unfortunately we do have a code of ethics, and peeking into another's mind is not a habit we're inclined towards. However I believe it is appropriate for you to be informed that the consensus beyond these walls is that Jared Padalecki has suffered a sudden and unexplained heart attack during his exam and subsequently passed on. His girlfriend is as we speak at the morgue identifying his body."

Jared's head snapped up with a look of disbelief at that. Said something about rights and how typical was that reaction. Jeffrey sighed, another kid doomed to this fate.

"It is our belief that you discovered yourself to have been bestowed with certain 'gifts'. The capability to listen to people's thoughts. Normally you'd be given a choice. To join us or to live your life closely monitored by the US government. Blue pill, red pill. But you're a special case, strong enough with your capability to potentially pose a danger to civilians around you. So your choices are to join the organization or live out your life in solitary confinement." Jeffrey paused, letting Jared take in the information. Best to get the hard parts over and done with. He daresay he understood how it felt, for years ago he was offered the very same choices himself. Finally the kid looked back up at him, not too much outward tells but the sporadic clutching and relaxing of his fingers, the slight quiver in his voice all betrayed his nervousness.

"Your organization?" Those gorgeous fox-tilted eyes fixed upon Jeffrey with such intensity a lesser man would have quavered. A born leader.

"We normally just tell people we're CSIS, but technically we're a special united affiliated with both CSIS and Mounties. RISC. Royal Investigations Special Consultants." Jeffrey explained in a curt tone. There was a faint buzz as the older man fished out a handphone from his pocket. "I'll give you a while for things to sink in."

"I'm in!" Jeffrey heard the kid blurt out. He shook his head, "No one's rushing you, kid. Take your time." So maybe some bureaucrat up there might want to rush the kid into a decision, but ultimately it was up to him to call the cards. The call was from Ottawa. As he answered Jeffrey could not help but reminisce his own experience. A hasty decision in a panic. A lost kid in a foreign land. A mentor KIA even before he actually set foot in the field. One day later and Jared's answer remained the same. Between working for a certain employer he's not so certain of and solitary confinement of uncertain terms, it was really a no-brainer. So Jeffrey got him checked out.

First stop was shopping, nothing exciting, just the basic necessities since it was inconceivable for someone who had died of heart attack to return and retrieve his personal belongings. Though Jeffrey did suggest the possibilities of retrieving a few valuable items via break-ins or confiscations, Jared politely declined. He owed it to Gen not to cause her unnecessary grief as it was. So they got a trunk-full of every-day clothes and toiletries and brand new gadgets (just a Dell and Beats and a Blackberry, Jared never was an Apple person), with Jeffrey giving a rough picture of RISC as they headed to the headquarters.

Turned out people like them were few and far between. UK was the first to really organize them to work for intelligence—Jared liked to think MI6 lived up to its name. Then they moved their base of operations to Canada. In recent years such individuals turned up inexplicably frequently in the States, so now US had a hand in RISC as well.

"Technically we're supposed to be in Ottawa." Jeffrey shrugged as he led Jared through the walkways. The HQ was in one of those ridiculously expensive apartment complexes, almost like a high-end hotel with security card systems in the lifts and its own high-rise gardens and gyms and the assorted amenities. "But given our diverse nature, they decided to just place us in one of the English-speaking areas and we ended up in BC." Jeffrey slid in the card and the lift just went up and up. Penthouse then, Jared guessed.

The place was minimalistic in design, basic but designer furniture items, an open plan kitchen and lounge with a short corridor to his left and a spiral staircase on the right. The staircase was a double-helix shape, with light-coloured wooden treads and the backbones constituted of a glass-like material. It looked so fragile Jared was seriously concerned whether it was capable of supporting his weight. At minimum he still had six feet four inches' worth of mass. Unfortunately, it was toward those very same staircase that Jeffrey directed him.

"Three rooms on top, you're taking the one right next to the stairs. Used to be the storage room so the furniture's temporary. Next to you is Chad. I'm in the other. Jensen lives on the first floor. Jeffrey pointed his thumb towards the corridor, which had three rooms in a row. "The outermost is guest washroom. The middle is for storage."

Jared was ever-grateful towards Jeffrey's briskness in the introductions, for by this times his arms were questioning his lack of foresight in neglecting to purchase a suitcase.

The room was small, even smaller than the guest room in his Harvard apartment. Jeffrey was right, he had to consider new furnishings, for currently the room was spartan. A simple desk, a bed, open concept wardrobe and storage rack, all of the modular variety that could be folded into a box for easy storage. The positive aspect was the room having a standalone shower-cum-restroom. Merely a frosted-glass stall in the middle of nowhere, but at least he need not share.

As Jared headed down he realized Jeffrey was no longer alone. Before he even saw them he heard words like "dinner" and "take-out". A nostalgic aroma of Southern cooking wafted into his nostrils. As he reached the bottom of the spiral (acrylic, it would appear, and not glass) Jared noted Jeffrey was joined by two good-looking blondes.

The shorter of the duo was bohemian in both dress and mannerism. A loose, tribal top decorated with exotic ornamentation, scuffed jeans and messy hair with a five-o'clock shadow. He stood with both hands in his pockets, leaning against the black marble topped kitchen island, his handsome visage fixed in a bored look. The other newcomer, Jared found words to have failed him. The first thing that came to mind was "pretty doll". He looked uncannily familiar, but that could not be, could it? Jared would most certainly have remembered such an alluring beauty. Long, thick lashes framed emerald orbs, a perfectly shaped T-zone extended to full lips in a perpetual pout. The freckles only added a lively touch to the otherwise frigid beauty. Even the short-cropped unruly blonde hair and mean-looking leather jacket did little to sway the prettiness. Those dark tight-fitting jeans only got Jared torn between ogling that arse and chiding the other male for being so careless with his attire. And yes, Jared totally thought of the latter, because despite being the taller of the two newcomers, this guy had such a fragility about him Jared just wanted to wrap him up and never let him out again.

Jeffrey motioned Jared over and went through the formalities, "Chad." He gestured towards the shorter. "And Jensen." The hand moved over to the beauty. Jeffrey looked like he was about to introduce Jared when beauty, _no, Jensen_ , abruptly cut him off, "Jared Padalecki? Nice to meet you." The husky quality in that voice made Jared's breathing quicken just a little. However he was as equally confused.

"Uh...yeah, pleasure's mine actually. Um...I don't believe we've met?" As soon as those word left his mouth Jared wanted to smack himself. Honestly, that was the dumbest introduction line he could possibly have come up with, ever. All that displacement was seriously messing with his intellect.

And Jensen...he _smiled_ , but Jared could sense the disappointment exude from those ethereal green eyes, and Jared just wanted to go over and give Jensen a bear-hug and maybe beat himself up some more.

"High school, Dallas?" Jensen asked without a hint of accusation, though Jared would rather there were. Moreover Jensen's words indeed triggered a memory. That was his Sophomore Year. Some "adult things" happened at home so he had to stay with relatives in Dallas for a while. Naturally switching schools was in the order. It was only for half a year so Jared only really knew those classmate who shared most classes with himself. Not too bad an experience considering. He had met some good people, and he'd always been good at making friends. They even kept up contacts until recently. Then again, being newbie always sucked.

"Oh, yeah. My Sophomore Year. Changed schools for half a year." Jared was uncertain if he was really explaining to Jeffrey and Chad or was he finding an excuse for himself. Must be too much going on in his mind. Where was his conversational vibe when he needed it?

Jensen gave an understanding smile, "Ah...I was your senior then. And a really introverted one too. Don't worry, it was pretty easy for me to remember you, one of those freakishly smart kids who attended one of my classes." Meanwhile the crush part went unmentioned. Unfortunately that totally did not make Jared want to berate himself any less. He had an urge to dispute Jensen, be it on the other man's claim of being an easily-forgettable individual or that Jared was just good at Maths and that's it. But then he decided he would probably mutter something else he would regret, so wisely chose to shut his mouth instead. Later Jensen would joke that Jared utterly resembled a gaping fish.

There was something strange about the way Jensen ended that last sentence. Like an inaudible sigh. Subtle, but different. Jared overlooked Jeffrey's solemn expression as the latter realised Jared had, for that fleeting instant, set up a block to his thoughts.

That evening Jared went for a jog, as he always did whenever he was upset. But the alien roads, the unfamiliar signs, those were simply too much for him to bear and he had to cut his route short.

As far as Jared's experience went, being an agent in a secret government organization and leaving one's old life behind was not in any sense glamorous or thrilling. Especially when one had worked as hard as he did to build up said life, up till his unwilling recruitment.

However it was later that night, alone in the dormancy of his new residence, did solitude truly grasp Jared by the throat. He missed _people_. Even if his parents could be exasperating at times, even if he quarrelled and even on occasions fought with his siblings. Even if some of his course mates were so mean and dull they made him feel like he never left high school. Now he missed them all.

Most of all, he missed Gen. It felt like he was in a spiral, not knowing which direction he was falling towards. Helpless, not knowing what to make of the situation, let alone what he could do. The anticipation was killing him.

For a fleeting moment, Jared wondered if any of the others ever felt the same.


	3. Rookie 101

The following morning, like all first mornings, was disorienting. In his drowsiness Jared had thought he was still in his campus apartment and rolled over, reaching for Gen, only to find himself getting intimate with the polished wooden floorboard. Suffice to say he got up on the "wrong side of the bed".

Breakfast was uneventful. Microwave-reheated fry-up, since he got up late. With a running commentary courtesy of Chad as a side. In fact, Jeffrey and Jensen were nowhere to be seen as Jared descended the stairs. Only Chad was present, dressed in a loud shirt couple with ripped jeans and sitting cross-legged on the L-shaped couch. Jared vaguely saw something explode on the huge plasma screen.

"Boss and Jensen are out. I'm tasked with showing you around. Rule number one in this house, other people's rooms are off limits unless invited. Rule number two, clean up after yourself or face Boss's wrath. Trust me, you do not want to. Rule number three, do not treat Jensen like a chick, or do so at your own peril. Rule number four, forget Harvard, you're the bottom of the pecking order. You'll learn the rest as you go." Jared was already starting to like Chad. The blonde was different from Jared's usual flock. Wayward and more than a little uncouth; but he struck Jared as the easy-going type who would not pass up any gossip. True to Jared's judgement, a mere morning spent in Chad's company and he got a wealth of information, some of which he considered bleaching his brain over.

Chad, full name Chad Michael Murray. Born in New York, raised in LA. High school dropout and "overall loser but I don't give a flying fuck". Once dabbled in gangs, experimented with weed but drew the line at cocaine. Was looking to straighten himself and signed up for vocational training. Striving towards a career in the fashion industry when this entire mess hit. Was apparently the only one in this house who did not need to hide from his family because "my old man's got dementia so it's easier for them to move him over together anyway."

There's the pretty boy Jensen Ackles. Quiet, introverted. Once a small-town kid dreaming about life in the big city but never had a chance to get out. Until RISC. Was looking towards graduating as a physical therapist in some local college before shit hit the fans.

Finally there's Jeffrey, _de facto_ leader for their small unit. Been with RISC the longest. Took the overseas route. Born in Seattle, raised in Sydney, just started on his graduate programme in Cambridge (Or was it Oxford? Chad always got those two mixed up.) when his manifestation took over. Most likely the one with experiences closest to mirroring Jared's.

Admittedly, Jared welcomed the knowledge that Jensen had boyfriends rather than girlfriends. But he really had no need to know that the guys once used a decibel-meter on one of their recon subjects in some of their more...intimate moments, if you would. And yes, apparently comparing the loudness of orgasms was a thing.

Just as Jared thought Chad was proceeding to go through some boring training routine or something to those likes, Chad asked seemingly out of the blue, "Which do you hate more? Drugs or human trafficking? No write-ins please." Once again knocked off his feet, Jared simply blurted out, "Drugs." Because while he abhorred both vices, he had never personally known anyone who was a victim of the former but had known all too real first-hand the devastation brought by the latter.

"Alright, grab a jacket...nevermind, get changed. Ditch your college-boy getup. We're going to the East Side." At those words Jared simply gave a confused stare and pointed dumbly at himself because East Side? Wasn't that supposed to be the "bad side" of the city? Were they certain of letting him, a rookie, head over? Or was Chad intentionally trying to get him into the position of Holly Gribbs*?

Seeing no response from Jared, the blonde huffed, "Boss told me that he'd told you about our Code of Conduct, so I totally can't read your mind now so if you have any questions you need to spit them out." Chad was now halfway up the staircase. As he leaned over the railing to peer at Jared, Jared suddenly had an epiphany why people so rarely questioned his own opinions.

"Well, I thought, you know, secret agents and operations..." Jared trailed off, suddenly uncertain of what to say because TV portrayal had the tendency to be grossly inaccurate but otherwise he had no references as to how secret operatives actually went about their jobs. Chad got the idea anyway, "Well rookie this _is_ training 101. Boss and those guys in monkey-suits reckoned it's much more effective learning on the job. I'm leading you on the small fries first, those are the sort of characters that actually live on the East Side. Not so important but also less risky." Chad probably also mentioned something about them working with intelligence so they were not as likely to be caught in the crossfire anyway. Jared was more focused on the positive possibilities that existed in the "likely".

Loathe as he was to admit, high school dropout Chad may be right about the entire learning-on-the-job thing. Just dressing up took them two entire hours, sped up only by Jared "inviting" Chad into his room. There were "tsk"s here and there as the smaller male rummaged through his wardrobe, and a comment thrown in about how Jared "totally inherited Jeff's choice of fashion" which judging from Chad’s tone was no cause for celebration. In the end they had compromised on a fitted tee, the loosest pair of jeans Jared owned (not that he had many tight ones to begin with), the well-worn sneakers he had on when he was "recruited", and a borrowed cap from Chad ("Wash before you return, moose." The blond had warned). The plan was to grab a jacket on the way there. They took a beat-up Honda Civic. "Had it before I joined RISC. Tried and tested in those sort of situations!" Chad beamed as he fondly patted the dashboard. Jared presumed hot-rod was somehow involved.

As they made their way to their destination--sure Jared could remember the street name but it’s not like he could recognize the roads at the speed Chad went--Chad was, well, being Chad, much to Jared's relief. The constant chatter did wonders to his nerves.

"You know, I'm really stoked that you joined. Boss always preferred working with Jensen. Hmph, 'fraid you'd mostly be stuck with me. Although sometimes you'd be with Boss, if they're not working. Maybe one day even with Jensen, though I'd say good luck with that but who knows." Chad had one hand on the steering wheel. The other reached for a packet of cigarettes on the sun visor.

"Oh don't look at me like I'm a habitual smoker. I'm not. Just one or two when I'm stressed." Chad rolled his eyes while Jared gave an uncertain smile. Had he really been that obvious? He thought he was pretty good at hiding his thoughts, what with working to become a lawyer and all. Then again, he _was_ more prone to slip-ups when stressed. And what was with this bitter taste at the tip of his tongue? So he got that they worked in pair most of the time, but Jeffrey’s actions...

"What about you and Jensen? Haven't you worked together?" Jared cringed as he heard his own words. He absolutely did not mean to be so blunt. Fortunately Chad took no offense, or perhaps more so because he had higher priorities on hand at the moment.

"Man, I don't believe Boss hadn't told you this. You and Boss," Chad looked pointedly at Jared. "You guys are Comprehensives. Meaning you guys can work with anyone, A-okay. Me and Jensen, we're Selectives, meaning we can only connect with either a selected few other Selectives or with the likes of you guys. While we're at it, Jensen's a little different from the rest of us. I gathered you can hear "voices" in your, oh strike that, in other people's heads? Good with music?" Jared just nodded dazedly, although he was not even sure whether was Chad even paying attention to himself as the latter went on, "You, me and Boss, we're Stereo. Jensen's an Optic, meaning he sees rather than hears thoughts. And yeah, he's the only one who'd wear Ray-Bans indoors. We're there." So Jared scarcely had time to even absorb let alone contemplate the concepts of "Stereo" and "Optic".

The place gave Jared the same sort of vibe as downtown Detroit. Just lined with old buildings fallen into disrepair. Uncovered manholes and unmended cracks that spider-webbed the pavement. The car screeched to a halt less than gracefully at a shady corner. Jared noted three kids--yes, kids--standing by a red-bricked wall. Two of them had hoodies covering their faces, the third had his (hers?) obstructed by the angle. Jared moved to alight, only to find the doors locked. "Sit tight and listen, noob." Chad said in a sort of sing-song voice, taking joy in Jared’s apparent bewilderment. He paused for a long while--Jared suspected it was intentional--before explaining, "You do not want to go into a crowd before mastering control on your thought-reading." Chad shook his head in emphasis, "Uh-uh. Now you just focus on me while I go over and chat with them. Focus on me first..."

"Different people work differently with their abilities, so you've got to learn to know yourself, pace yourself..." Out of the blue, it appeared as though Chad spoke over himself. "...then you want to take turns, focusing one after another in the group..."

"...some people feel a 'click', some don't even feel anything and some black out."

"...you're doing great now..." By this point Jared was already having difficulties distinguishing which parts were Chad's thoughts and which were actually spoken. It was surprisingly less taxing to read Chad than any of his prior experiences. Was that what Chad meant by 'connecting'? Or was he simply getting stronger? Jared ventured to ask but Chad had already headed over to the group of kids, so Jared did as he was told and focused on the retreating figure.

He heard Chad thinking through the name of the gang (cartel?), the history of their records (weed, ice, and then some substances Jared didn't even realise could be abused). He heard someone mention Big Brother and Rio and then Jared found himself hearing complete sentences. Next thing Jared knew, someone was shaking his shoulder and a packet of Kleenex landed on his lap. He looked up to concerned stormy blues and realised belatedly something dripped from his nose.

"So I take it you've got the gist of what we do." Chad had said on their way to the shooting range. They did rifle and moved on to pistol all in one afternoon. Jared was thankful for his family's fortunes that this wasn't his first time in a range, even if air rifles and pistols were somewhat different from the standard-issue.

"Wouldn't it be better if we'd had fixed partners?" Jared wondered aloud when he fully comprehended the rotatory nature of their pair-ups. "Tried once, didn't work out." Chad shrugged as he swung his messenger bag across his chest. Jared felt something was off, yet was only able to place it much, much later.

 Thus was Jared's life with RISC. Usually half a day was spent running intel, the other half occupied by trainings--guns, combat, sound recognition. No kidding, he was forced to listen to music of all sorts of questionable taste.

He still missed Gen. He had eventually managed (with some help, of course) to sneak into his Facebook account and retrieved a couple of pictures, so _all hail the internet_. Yet mere photographs were also an everyday reminder to his helplessness in face of their separation. He kept tabs on her too, even if it were creepy as hell but Jared could not help himself. It was reassuring to learn that she had begun to move on. But it hurts too.

And then one day Jared was searching for something and Chad diverted him to the storage room. Amidst the dim light Jared could tell it used to a living quarter. The racks lining the walls only took up half the room, thus enabling Jared to observe traces of a dismantled bathroom and different lighting fixtures. In fact, it was larger than Jared's current room.

Then a corner of paper caught Jared's eye. He tugged. It was a photo. Of Jensen...and Thomas. Jared recognized his friend immediately, and everything just clicked. It made sense in retrospect. Thomas did say he was with CSIS, and he did show signs of recognizing Jared's "gift". Jared chided himself for his daftness. Hell, Thomas might even be the one whom scouted him in the first place!

Jared brought the photograph to the door to get better light. This photo could not have been from that long ago, for Thomas looked just like he was at Harvard. Though Jensen did look a little younger, perhaps due to the blush high upon those delicate cheekbones. It was a half-bodied shot, both boys had on polo-tees and Thomas had an arm over Jensen's shoulder. Jared noticed Thomas' eyes were a sea-green rather than the vivid blue in his memories, and mentally laughed because how naive was it for him to think they would go undercover without some form of disguise? The photo appeared to be from a shattered frame, with faint scratches and tiny bits glistening here and there that Jared could only imagine to be broken glass.

Jared found himself possessed to slip the photograph into his pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Holly Gribbs, minor character in C.S.I. and murdered on first day of work.


	4. Cult

When he and Chad approached the penthouse apartment door, dinner in hand, Jensen caught a glimpse of the newcomer's thoughts. Tom, in Harvard. And Jensen knew who the newcomer was. For a moment there he was afraid to step into what was supposedly their safe haven--though that latter concept had been shaken one too many times prior.

It felt almost like years had never passed. He was back in the classroom, the stifling heat of a summer afternoon. Back then his greatest concern was whether the crowd he hung out with was popular enough, whether that hot girl from next class had a thing for him. He was in the far corner of the room, roughhousing with his usual bunch as high school boys were wont to do. The ceiling fan creaked furiously, worked to its limit yet did little to dissipate the clinging heat. Afternoon sunlight punched through the open windows, a glare harsh and blinding.

Then this bunch of _kids_ walked in and there _he_ was. If one thought the term "overgrown puppy" befitted Jared now, then one must have not met him back then. Back when Jared had yet to fill out his frame, tall and lanky and awkward in his own body. But Jensen could visualize the potential in there. And boy was the kid smart. The fact that he was doing his Maths (and some sciences, or so was said along the grapevine) classes alongside the Seniors ought to be testimony enough.

Then fox-tilted eyes turned and positively glared at their corner. Jensen was instantaneously lost in the play of light and shadows within those hazels. He had wanted to make friends, but it was easier said than done. All too quickly Jared became "cool" with the popular crowds. Jensen? He never found it easy challenging his comfort zone. Introverted, just popular enough to be overlooked.

And then Jared left.

Nothing to miss. After all just look at what became of them. Harvard versus community college. They were leagues apart.

Yeah, nothing to miss there. "And wow had puberty been kind to Jared." Jensen could not help but think as he saw the tall man walk towards them. Floppy hair, killer dimples, deceptively regal way the muscular body moved, and those puppy eyes that Jensen got so familiar with after one too many dreams. Not the first time he had seen Jared since high school, yet Jensen simply couldn't help the flush that he knew was creeping up his neck. Quite possibly the only thing he did not expect was Jared getting even taller than before and _how was that even possible?!_ Yeah, Jared was so totally out of his league.

So why the sting when Jared failed to recognize him? "How hilariously tragic is it, you holding onto this crush and the object of your affection doesn't even know you fucking exist." His mind helpfully supplied but Jensen steadfastly ignored it. Jared seemed to have recalled some when Jensen mentioned Dallas, and Jensen had the urge to pry and see the truth in that recognition. He couldn't help it. Not after Tom. But he knew better than to do that with Jeff in such close proximity.

Chad was put in charge of training the kid. Jensen felt unfair on behalf of Jared. It would do the kid good to be exposed to different mentors. Yet at the same time he was relived at Jeff's arrangements.

As they climbed into his Lamborghini--well technically it wasn't yet his but it would be appropriated as evidence soon and then RISC would come by it so it's all semantics really--Jeff fixed him _that_ stare which started ever since he cut in and made his own self-introduction rather than wait for Jeff. "Spill it." Jensen had not meant to sound so gruff, but the entire tension and suspension, both in work and in life, wore him out. "I knew you guys encountered the kid during the Massachusetts mission. It's just a little surprising to learn you're acquainted even prior to that." Jeff finally said. Jensen just shrugged in response. What was he supposed to say to that? It's not like he could survive a chick-flick moment. He despised when others treated him like a glass figurine, and to halt that behaviour he needed to stop treating himself as one.

Buildings flew past, the vibrancy of city-centre morphed into abandoned decay. They drove right past, and gradually the scenery turned into rustic wilderness. As Jensen drove Jeff climbed over the back and crouched down, hidden in plain sight. The silver car ultimately parked by a summerhouse by some lake. It was a fair-sized abode, a two-storeyed wooden building the size of an average year-round residence, with all the interior fittings to match. Courtesy of a hedonist being its occupant, as Jensen ought to know.

Jensen sashayed through the door, put on a smile which was apparently sufficiently attractive for their subject of investigations, and let his face do the talking. Soon enough it was just Jensen and their subject alone in the room. A few well-placed calls from their colleagues at CSIS and a smashed handphone later, Jensen sank down to his knees with practiced ease. He wanted to cry, or laugh hysterically. Instead he schooled his countenance to a bored expression.

He had a life once, too. It was not much, but it was his. He had secured a loan, got into college, finally learnt from an old friend that Jared got into Harvard and had started paying attention to the hot new barista at the café near school. And then he started seeing flashes, much like flashlights on a DSLR. Thereafter he often fainted. Jensen initially blamed the heavy drinking typical of college life, but after a month of abstinence and no improvement, he had started suspecting. Then he'd had a particularly bad episode. He woke in the hospital, and he met Tom.

Tom Welling, alumni of MIT, graduated top of his class and pawned all the "smart Asians" apparently. Tall, built like a sex god, floppy hair and those deep sea-green eyes Jensen instantly drowned within.

Jensen obediently opened his mouth as stubby fingers pried between his lips. Tried to ignore the crude comments of "cock-sucking lips" and "slut" and the dreadful musk coupled with his gag reflex. Docilely swallowed the thick, swollen piece of flesh till the wiry hair stung his nostrils, and tried to focus on the images flashing through his mind. Concrete building, warehouse by the sea. A name card. A face. That last image looked familiar, yet Jensen simply could not recalled the associated name. He would have to go through the database, again. From the relative position of the face and their subject Jensen could work out that individual was the "grand master", or whatever equivalent they had in this particular organization. Not like the exact term mattered.

Bingo! Jensen reached for his ankle.

The worst part of RISC was the hurt his family was forced through. They were a close-knit bunch, which made it all the more heart wrenching to witness his folks weep over his own "funeral". Yet Jensen felt compelled to watch on.

Coming to Vancouver somehow felt akin to navigating a cyclone on an iceberg. Jensen had been dazed, lost. No idea how long was he capable of keeping up. Sure he'd dreamt of big city life, but this was too abrupt a twist in his previously monotonous life. It left him in stupor. Tom had been like an elixir, everything one could wish for in a guy. Smart, interesting, good-humoured, handsome...Especially helpful towards helping Jensen. Moreover, it became a pleasant surprise when they were "complementary" to one another. So Jensen had clung on, not realizing it was Cantarella that he downed.

Jensen pulled back quickly as he felt the veins pulse. Sound akin to a balloon pop rang out simultaneously. Viscous liquid clung upon those doll-like lashes, dripped upon luscious lips, dyeing them a devious red. Jensen tasted a splatter of the tangy liquid upon his tongue. Thick, coppery, with a hint of saccharine. There was a huge, gaping wound where half of their subject's neck was. Good, he disliked having brain matter flying about.

Jensen hastily swung the door open, only to come face-to-face with a displeased Jeff. Jensen stared defiantly back, before nodding towards the prone figure in the plush armchair.

"I've got the locations. Hell, I've got the top guy's face! No use keeping this one." Jensen disliked confrontations in the interrogation rooms for these sort of missions. He knew Jeff knew. This wasn't even the only way, but it was by far the most efficient. Jeff said nothing, just tilted Jensen's head up and swiped a thumb over the corner of Jensen's lips. Jensen knew Jeff disliked this, but what could he say?

They made their way to the car in silence.

xxxxx

The clock on his Surface Pro (first generation; he's not exactly an innovator nor adopter) indicated 00:00 as the dainty desktop printer ceased its hum. The last of his report was slotted into the folder, and Jensen stretched in his tall-backed hard plastic swivel chair. The room was tenebrous save for the haunting illumination from his tablet/laptop, the darkness laid emphasis to its emptiness. The room was slightly rectangular in shape, on the large end though by no means luxuriously spacious. The door opened right next to the wall on Jensen's left as he faced away from it. To the left of this door was a tiny bathroom, barely able to cram a toilet and shower. At the end of the bathroom were a wardrobe and a bookshelf, side-by-side, inlaid and approximately the same size. This formed a Genkan-like walkway right to Jensen's U-shaped work desk by the panoramic window. Above which arched a single-sized loft-bed and that was it.

Tiredly rubbing his eyes, Jensen proceeded to the kitchen to grab a drink. He froze as he spotted a figure on the couch in low light, only relaxing when he recognized it as Jared. Yeah, it could not have been Tom. _What was he even thinking?_ Jensen berated himself as he made his way to the refrigerator.

Jared was slouched upon the L-shaped sofa, earphones still over his head. Probably listening to some of their training audios. He just looked so relaxed, felt so close.

Massachusetts mission was a bittersweet memory. He got into an academy he would otherwise have no courage to step into even the premises. He got to learn so much about Jared. However it was precisely there too that he lost Tom. Tom was so stoked about Jared's potential, about Jared joining them, it formed a wedge that grew into a gyre. It quickly escalated into everything being Jared this and Jared that...Tom spoke of him with such revere. Jensen tried, but it appeared that his best efforts simply could not match up.

Jensen intended to hake Jared awake. As he touched Jared's shoulder the latter whispered something akin to "Jen". Jensen almost had a sense of euphoria before he recalled Jared's girlfriend (was it ex now?) was called Gen. He retracted his outstretched hand and nudged Jared with his foot instead.

 "Hey kid, go sleep on your own bed. You'd catch a cold here." Jensen started as he heard himself. Gosh did his voice sound hoarse. He really should shut up; totally sounded like he was on the verge of crying.

Thankfully Jared stammered and they both darted back to their respective rooms in a more or less frantic state. And he had to live with this guy for goodness-knows-how-long. Life was indeed awesome.

First thing Jensen did upon retreating to his room was to head straight for the bathroom and splash his face, staring absently as water swirled in the clear glass basin. Him and Jared, they were not from the same world. Look what became of him and Tom. Though Jeff did say Tom was a scumbag of the one-in-a-million variety. All Jensen could see were the similarities between Jared and Tom. Intelligent, ambitious, forced to leave too much behind. Himself? Neither here nor there, to be brutally honest. Being with the likes of him would be "settling". There's simply no other way to describe it. Had it not been RISC...

He murdered Tom with his own hands. Jensen didn't think he could survive that again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so just to be safe, a disclaimer: I’m sure in real life Tom’s a really nice guy, as are guys from MIT, and I've nothing against either of the aforementioned parties. It's all for the sake of fiction.  
> Thanks everyone for your kudos/comment(s)!


	5. Ships in the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Dubcon. Consent issue on Jared’s part.

Jensen knew Jared probably realised he was trying to avoid the younger man. Their schedules were always clashing. Once was coincidence, twice was arguably an inconvenience. To be so for a few consecutive weeks and even Jensen felt something was awry. If Jensen noticed the Wi-Fi signal upon Jared's forehead grew stronger, then he chose to overlook it. Nevertheless Jared was doing pretty well, having already moved onto actual interviews with their investigation subjects. It made Jensen's rookie days seem so pathetic, with all its amateur screw-ups like stammering in the midst of the questions, forgetting the actual question, topped off by that one time he forgot to load the gun before pulling the trigger.

So Jensen sort of breathed a sigh of relief when Jared and Chad headed for Toronto.

The call came on a Friday evening. They just wrapped up the latest case, leaving the actual arrests to the state police or the CIA. Apprehension was none of their concern. The wind picked up outside the apartment as the sky grew dark, whistling through cracks and crannies. Jensen reached for the thermos dispenser. It was getting cold with autumn approaching.

Then Jeff's phone rang, he picked it up expecting nothing out of the ordinary. By the time Jeff put down the phone Jensen could feel the tension in the air.

"Grab two tickets. Toronto. ASAP." That was Jeff the team leader _ordering_. Jensen knew it was trouble with the other two. Big trouble, for them to call at all.

He really ought to get used to flying by now, what with taking planes several times per month. Hell, he had learned the packing part quickly enough. Jeans, tops, scarf, socks and undies, laptop, his overnight bag, thrown haphazardly into whatever luggage that suited the needs of that mission and he'd be all set. Yet Jensen could not help his elevated heart-rate as the city of Toronto came into sight.

They were all business as they crossed the terminal, Jensen slipped on his custom-made wrap-around sunglasses and adjusted the settings. It became like a one-way glass, reflective on the outside, transparent to the pair of eyes behind it. He caught a glimpse of Jeff putting away his earbud case. It was silence all the way, got into the rental car (Mercedes, Jensen dispassionately noted. Jeff took the wheel), drove down unfamiliar highways.

The silence was deep enough to drown in, cold enough to freeze time as they sat opposite Jared in the suite. Jared had on a checked shirt with a cardigan over it, sweat pants and bare feet in hotel slippers, yet his demeanour was anything but relaxed. Jeff was in a black two-piece combo, his stoic face gave no tells. The creak of whiskey glass in his hand was the only betrayal to his emotions. Jensen absently fingered the cuff of his leather jacket, chewed his bottom lip fervently as they watched Jared go through the things on the latter's laptop.

Once again, Jensen had to give it to the kid. Video records, interviews, suspicions? Kid was resourceful. If there was something to pull, Jared had already pulled. Now they just had to stake out.

"There." Jensen smiled gratefully as he took the cup from Jeff and gave a deep whiff. Double-shot espresso. _Nice._

The "thud" rang too loud for comfort in the deserted midnight street as Jeff slammed the passenger door shut. The occasional streetlight segmented the highway into intervals of light and dark, gave the road ahead an illusion of endlessness. The darkened estates in a distance were like headstones, eerily silent in the dead of the night. The occasional soul still awake like friar's lanterns.

Jared's voice crackled through the Bluetooth earpiece. Target approaching.

Technically they could have asked for support from the traffic police but that would have taken time. Time which they did not have. So Jensen helped Jared hack into the public security cameras. Legal much? Well not like RISC was that legal an existence in the first place. Besides, Jeff approves.

Their target vehicle rolled into sight. A black van, how very cliche. Perhaps the saving point was its windows were not tinted. Jensen peddled the accelerator. Their car slid along the empty road, tracking the other vehicle with practiced ease. Jensen spared a glance at the right side mirror, only to sweep upon Jeff's knitted brows. Those brown eyes hardened like Tigers Eye (Jensen did briefly wonder if Jeff's eye were ever capable of attaining dagger-like quality) and positively _glared_ at the vehicle they tailed. "So...no Chad?" Jensen did not even need Jeff's affirmative gesture. They had worked with one another long enough.

It was a lot harder to squirm into someone's mind whilst simultaneously driving, but eventually scenes began playing in Jensen's mind, like a film in mime. _Chad dragged in, Chad dragged out._ He could briefly make out from Chad's expression it was an acquaintance before RISC. The images rolled on. _Phone call (Xperia, same model as his own. Nice taste.). Chad in a bloody mess._ Something very recognizable flashed in the background, so brief Jensen probably would have overlooked it two years ago. Wait, rewind... _00331..._

Jensen slammed his brakes and the car jerked to a halt. The engine gave a rumble of protest before it stalled. Neither Jensen nor Jeff paid it much heed. Jensen took huge gulps of air in an attempt to steady his breathing before turning to Jeff. The older man had a similar--albeit milder--look of disbelief. Awesome. Looks like he wouldn’t even have to get Jared to check the telco records.

WTF! _Paris_?

xxx

 _Well, at least it's warmer here._ Jensen thought as he cracked his neck. The last vestiges of summer clung upon the heatwave. Long-haul economy cabins were so not made for people his size. His only consolation being that Jeff and Jared were definitely worse off. Last-minute bookings were a bitch. And money wasn't even the problem there. Or perhaps it was, given that transatlantic private jets were a lot harder to come by than their media portrayal suggested.

CDG wasn't nearly as fascinating after a few transfers though Jensen, without fail, zoned out passing through one of the long escalator tunnels. From the corner of his eyes he saw Jared tie his cardigan around his neck. _Nerd._  "Final destination much?" Jensen huffed. There was no reply. Fair enough, not like he was in a most conversational mood himself. Customs was easy, with the benefit of choice between Canadian and EU passports. Hey, there had to be _some_ benefits associated with a top-secret intelligence organization!

Jensen found the arrival hall a little overwhelming, a cacophony of alien and familiar languages. A few individuals approached them intermittently, asking if they required a taxi. Jensen just trusted Jeff to lead them to where their rental car sat waiting. There wasn't exactly enough time to go through with all the protocols to convince the European authorities, and honestly it wasn't like they had much energy to spare for the paperwork. So they kind of had to lay low for the moment and book everything as average tourists. Average tourists with _contacts_. Whatever, been there, done that.

They'd rented a Hyundai, and Jensen had a not-so-happy feeling about this mission. Jeff just threw the key at Jared. Meanwhile Jensen rushed for the back seat and curled in. Normally he was the designated driver but with the barely eight hours' sleep between his last mission and now, he wasn't even sure a quadruple-shot espresso (if there ever was) could save him from falling asleep at the wheel. Besides, this was Europe. One does not simply gulp down European coffee in an attempt to stay awake.

As the car rolled down the cobblestone paths and narrow alleys Jensen had this itch to just hot-rod this car, legality be damned. Fortunately they arrived at their destination before this itch materialized into action.

Paris--or at least its less-affluent quarters--was like a painting lost in storage. Fascinating to look at with its quaint cobblestone streets, Parisian apartments and their narrow doors and intricate wrought iron balconies. At every turn there seemed to be a church of Gothic influence, its gargoyles perched, scrutinizing every passer-by. Baroque, classic, modern...a simply mind-boggling array of architectures laid as far as one’s eyes could see. Yet the olfactory aspect was where one's mileage may vary. There was a distinct perfume scent present, yet weaved in were tendrils of stale wetness not unlike a wet dog's fur.

They passed the messily graffitied wall (which did not even look nice in Jensen’s opinion), pushed open a cheap-looking door beneath a dilapidated sign. And Jensen knew his intuition was right. So goddamned accurate he really considered becoming a psychic on the side. The staircase was so narrow and aged Jensen could almost feel the stone tremble beneath their combined weights. Things only escalated from there. They booked two rooms but ended up squeezing into one because the other was so thoroughly exhumed in the fumes of smoke and excrement and bleach and whatever other unidentified chemical they agreed gas masks were in order.

And it was not like they had a choice. According to Jeff he heard the name of this street mentioned repeatedly, and the hostel just across them was completely booked out. At least they blended in. With duffels and backpacks and Jeff dressed down in a checked shirt, sweater and jeans, they totally looked like father and sons/brothers on a backpacking trip, penny-pinching and without a solid plan. The bathroom had mould in every single corner. The saving grace was that the beds looked free of bugs. Not that they planned to sleep much, if any.

Soon as the bags were down the phones were out. Jensen pulled his contacts for weapons. Jeff for intel. Jared...in Jensen's opinion it made more sense for the kid to be with Jeff since two heads have a higher memory capacity than one and it made no sense to risk two people getting detained for illegal possession of firearms when one was evidently enough. But Jared disagreed, gave a wide range of persuasive expressions from puppy-eyes to bitch-face in protest. Those puppy-eyes should be outlawed! Gosh, under their power even Jeff agreed to this illogical arrangement, brushed off Jensen's protests that ranged from logical (that one in jail was better than one on the streets) to emotional (treating him like a glass doll was _so not cool_ ).

Thus Jensen now had an intimidating six-foot four-inch bodyguard. Talk about being inconspicuous.

Ah the city's underbelly. One could never fully appreciate its existence until one got involved. "Your first inter-continental mission, huh? Left." The car finally entered a boulevard. Jensen noted the Champ de Mars. They probably ought to come for a stroll after this mess. "Go ahead," Jensen directed again. "Yeah, but not my first time in the city though. Grad trip." That gentle voice answered. And since when did he start thinking Jared's voice as gentle? No, when had he started _thinking_ of Jared's voice, huh? He could tell the melancholy in Jared. Jensen couldn't muster up sufficient courage to come up with decent words of comfort, so he merely clapped Jared's shoulder and continued with the directions.

"You know, I appreciate your concern, but honestly I can handle myself, especially against a girl." Jensen tried again, futilely, to dissuade Jared. _Wonder how Jess is, though._ He'd heard her move over to France half a year ago, hopefully without any service at her heels.

"And you’re so certain she wouldn't bring along reinforcements?" Jared lifted an eyebrow as he practically glowered, with such ferocity Jensen decided it unwise to continue this argument. The car rolled along, alternated between smooth asphalt and bumpy cobblestone until Jensen called halt.

Thereafter it was another short trek before they rounded a corner and came face to face with a dark-haired beauty. Tanned, slender, bold yet sensuous. Jessica. Jensen met her in Saint Petersburg. He'd initially thought she was with the KGB, then subsequently realised she was on their hit-list. They hadn't sold one another by the end of the episode and so mutually agreed they were friends. She looked better than she did, though it was admittedly hard to look one's prime when hunted by both the Bratva and the KGB. She turned. Jensen followed. If Jared's hand on his shoulder was a tad too tight, Jensen wasn't about to complain.

They were led down to a basement via a decrepit-looking door and pass a hidden door and just "Wow!". The cavern (for no way was this simply a basement) was an armoury of military calibre. "Is that a howitzer?" Jensen exclaimed in wide-eyed amazement.

"Discount if you buy with the tank." Sensuous lips coated in bright red broadened into a smile. Jessica's reply was to Jensen yet her eyes were trained at Jared. "Hey Gorgeous, relax. They're all for your picking."

They left with a duffel bag full of weapons. Pistols, sawed-off shotguns, and a semi-auto. As they left Jensen saw the Eiffel tower against the mid-noon sun. This quality of tranquillity, as though this were but another languid afternoon full of tour groups and petition seekers.

Turned out they needed less than half of that weaponry. Jeff's intel pinpointed a fairly exact location. Sure there were some rolling in the dirt and hiding in corners that looked like they were last cleaned during the Revolution. But in the end, a few well-placed hoax orders by Jeff proved this was not the most well-organized crime group. The remaining lackeys were quickly taken cared of without a single shot fired. Chad looked none the worse for wear, though upon closer inspection his left knee definitely called for pins and needles. It was unbelievably easy.

So Jensen blamed it on carelessness that Jeff was attacked in the parking lot as they left the hospital. Bullet went right through the thigh. It was misfortune that the bullet managed to severe an artery. The silver lining was that the attack took place in the car park of a _hospital_.

Neither did the assailant get away. Jensen was right there beside Jeff. As was Jared. But Jensen was tired and sleep-deprived and thus incredibly pissed off. He'd emptied an entire clip into the assailant before Jared could react. He didn't pay much attention to the latter's shock as their top priority was getting Jeff into the ER. Of course, that also meant diplomatic hassle became unavoidable.

xxx

The hotel overlooked Champ de Mars, so Jensen figured it was as good as a walk.

All in all, Jensen was satisfied with his negotiation skills. Pleasing Interpol was the key. Chad and Jeff were repatriated with "special privileges". He was subjected to "internal investigations" which CSIS and Mounties would undoubtedly wrangle over and give up on. The other three would probably have an aneurysm about him negotiating the terms. It's not like Jeff and Chad could do much to protest sedated upon the operating table. Jared...well flirting with the _nurses_ did come in handy.

It felt liberating, being able to scrub all that dirt and grime, a strange sense of satisfaction watching the dirty water swirl down the drain. Unfortunately a private jet remained not in order, so they had to wait for vacant seats the next day. They were not even given a suite. Or duo singles. Just crammed into a double room.

Jared was sitting on the bed in T-shirt and boxers, two empty wine bottles by his feet and a third bottle on the nightstand. Kid looked flushed. Jensen grabbed a glass and poured himself a generous serving.

Beyond the window the Champ de Mars was a mix of dancing lights and elegant silhouettes.

"You're still angry with me." Jensen stated matter-of-factly. He did not regret drugging Jared. But he was not here to apologize anyway. "This place, it reminded you of something, didn't it?"

"Gen. First met her here, at the banks of La Seine." Jared slurred, but clear enough for Jensen to make out what he meant. _How romantic a start, a fairy-tale beginning._ From their window they could catch a glimpse of the river. A vast plain of deep midnight, dotted with shimmering scales of city lights. Jensen suddenly felt a chill permeate his being, so he shifted onto the bed Jared occupied.

"You? Been here 'fore?" With a "thud"--too loud for Jensen's taste--Jared placed his wineglass on the nightstand. A little of the red liquid sploshed over. Jared rolled back his head against the headboard, and tugged lightly at the sleeve of Jensen's bathrobe.

"Nope. Talked about it. Trip never materialized." Jensen sighed wistfully. A few tugs here and a few shifts there and Jensen now sat astride Jared, bathrobe in disarray. Jensen felt as though _he_ was the drunk one, though he had barely half a glass. As though hypnotised, Jensen reached out and ran his fingers through the fluffy brown curls, as he desired since first sight. Soft, smooth, warm. Felt like running through the richest chocolate. Jensen felt a palm on his chest. Big and warm. Yet so weak, he couldn't tell if it meant to shove him away or to feel him up.

Jensen leaned in, nibbled at Jared's lips, tongue flickering out, testing. Those thin lips, sculpted and hot.

 _Love me? Hate me?_ It no longer matter right now. Those hazel eyes were so foggy, enticing. Jensen found himself continuing his monologue unbidden, "That was before Tom. Heard of the Versailles and its gardens. I'd even though about pursuing my degree in Europe. What a joke. I can't even get out of Texas." Tears dripped past thick lashes. It's not like Jared would remember what transpired, drunk as he was. Jensen buried his nose into Jared's shoulder.

Jensen felt the hard body beneath him squirm, and something hot and hard poked at his leg. Jensen dipped two fingers into Jared’s almost-full glass, wetted them to the knuckle before reaching behind himself. His other hand dared to venture into Jared's boxers, released his manhood and slowly stroked. He had to dip his fingers a few more times before he was confident enough to lower himself onto Jared. Even then Jensen knew he had underestimated the size as he felt the tearing burn. He continued anyway.

"You know, we all break a little." Icy fingers drifted across those killer cheekbones, closing the lids over dazed hazels. Jensen dared another kiss to Jared's now-parted lips. Light and almost chaste. He felt better now, with Jared a warm heat inside him, yet such emptiness all the same.

Then Jensen felt the pulse, the warm rush, and the numbing cold came back. "We're like ships in the night, everyone keeps passing us by."

Jensen vaguely heard something rustle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm...it escalated quickly, I guess? *got a little carried away in this chapter lol*  
> PS: Jessica = Jessica Alba  
> And no, I'm not making any money out of this story (read: no sponsorship whatsoever). The brands named are just me trying to cut down on words describing the products.


	6. The Spectators

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, was working on my "pet project" Rewind. But here it is! Haha looks like my chapters are getting increasingly longer. *keep it up, girl*

Jared awoke to the blinding rays of the sun piercing through their window with its drawn curtains. Wait, blinding rays equal strong sunlight equals _mid-day_?! Jared flailed blindly then squinted at the Xperia he dug out from... _somewhere_.

Whew! 9:30. Damn the alcohol. Then the previous night hit him full force. Well, admittedly more like freight-train sort of full force than the Titanic variety, since Jared was more or less conscious throughout. Languid but not to the point of knocked out. After all, it was impossible to maintain an erection while dead drunk, and Jared thought he did pretty fine last night. Though he did wonder why Jensen failed to notice.

The instigator of last night's activities laid half-curled, half-sprawled beside him. With his perfect features--too-big eyes, girly lashes, down to the pouty lips--all relaxed, the sense of vulnerability and fragility shot off the meter.

Jared ought to be angry with Jensen for the latter forcing himself onto Jared. Instead Jared placed a light kiss between those freckled shoulder-blades. Because Jensen was right. They all broke a little, landing this fucked-up job. Screw all the abstinence and being faithful et cetera. They were totally living a world of live and let die. Acting on the spur of the moment because there may well not be a next. _How ought I to spot your cracks, Jensen? Where do we even start mending them?_

Jared surveyed the calamity that was their room. Fortunately nothing was broken, just items of clothing scattered all over the floor, spilled red wine stained its way across furniture and fabric. His head hurt from the onslaught of scarlet (or was it the light?). Everything felt a little disoriented. Jared brushed it off as courtesy of the hangover. He spared another glance at the handphone.

10:30. Holy crap! Did he read the time wrong just now or did time pass faster this morning? They were so going to miss their flight! Jared was just about to wake Jensen, all the while bracing himself for the inevitable confrontation when the phone in his hand blared an electro tune. The caller ID showed JDM--and yeah, a few months into the job Jared took to calling Jeffrey by acronym instead. Jared took the call without a second thought, "Hi, JDM."

There was silence. Long enough to raise sirens in Jared's head. When JDM's voice came through it was something between a growl and a barely restrained threat, "Jared." The lone word so low and menacing it jolted Jared wide awake. He had yet to change JDM's name on his phone, so it was still supposed to be Jeffrey D. Morgan. For goodness sake it was so _not_ a blackberry he held against his ear. Jared swore a change to his morning routine was in order. Coffee comes before all else.

All things aside, though, he had to first and foremost get through this phone call.

"Jared Padalecki. Give me one good reason why are you the one answering this call." JDM bellowed through the earpiece. Damn was the guy _pissed_. By right they weren't even supposed to refer to one another by their full names. Jared felt perspiration rivulet down his forehead. "Uh...Jensen's in the bathroom?" He tried weakly. The sun still shone a little too brightly, though somehow lacked in warmth as it pierced through the window. How strange, for despite his stature JDM never did strike Jared as intimidating. Yet at the moment, thousands of miles apart, Jared felt genuine fear.

"Kid, insufficient research on your subjects is the number one action that'll get you killed. Tell me, did you sleep with Jensen?" Jared was torn between asking JDM how he derived the latter from the former, and calling him out for the attitude. _What's up with the accusatory tone?_ So what if he had a sexual relationship with another entirely mature, consenting adult? One who actually instigated the whole thing, might Jared add.

Of course, his instinct screamed otherwise, and for once Jared decided to follow it and blurted out, "No! Of course not." Because somehow that lizard part of his brain reckoned this a safer answer. "Look, I'm afraid I've got to hang soon. We need to rush to the airport..." Jared wanted to draw a quick end to this conversation, but JDM cut him off, "About that, new orders came. Get Jensen to book you to UK. Anywhere in England will do. Further details will be emailed." Jeff seemed to have returned to _normal_. Jared scarcely had time to breathe a sigh of relief, though, before the ice came crashing back full force, "And Jared, if I get notice you're doing anything funny to Jensen, you'd wish you hadn't made it back."

Jared lowered the phone and let out the breath he didn't realise he held. Only then did he notice the phone looked like it fell into some body of water. Ah well, not that they lacked experience murdering phones. Jared shrugged, then frowned.

Granted, he knew the other two were protective of Jensen, but was this going a tad too far?

All these aside, he had better wake sleeping beauty up. While technically he could have booked those stuff himself...orders were orders. Moreover, why suffer the pain of such miscellaneous tasks when someone else could take his place? So on his previous missions logistics had been all on Chad. JDM probably had all the reports.

Hence Jared moved to the figure still sprawled upon the bed, silently bemoaning the loss of those delicious curves that landscaped the plateau. Or in translation, he would miss the inviting view of that arse. Scarcely had he touched the other man's shoulder those fan-like lashes fluttered and green orbs flew wide open. Jensen bolted upright, and Jared thanked his reflexes for narrowly avoiding collision with the other man. "Hey, watch it, won't ye?" Jared complained, Texan heavy in his voice. All he got was an unintelligible grunt from the blonde as Jensen headed for the bathroom. Jared noted with a strange sense of satisfaction that the other man walked a little more bow-legged than usual. _Wait, rewind. Bathroom?!_ Jared groaned in dismay as the bathroom door locked with a click. Jensen was one of those rare specimens of the male population which could primp like there was no tomorrow. And the light from the window was still too bright.

Jared clasped his still-throbbing head and groaned. A coffee was so going to be the new first in his morning routine.

x x x

So maybe JDM entrusted Jensen to book their flights not so much because he read the files as Jensen's so damned good at convincing people. Not that "oh so adorable" puppy look that people cooed at himself (and how was that _not_ disturbing, Jared never could quite figure out), but with that pretty smile and Disney-princess eyes, all Jensen had to do was lean over the counter a little and the person behind it gave them a free upgrade.

Legroom in business cabin was significantly more tolerable. However Jared spent the better part of their journey fretting over some of those reddish stains he spotted upon the pristine white sheets as Jensen happily occupied the bathrooms because _gosh those did not look like wine stains_. Back then Jared felt his mouth turn dry and not from the air-conditioning. Had he really hurt Jensen? And actually it wasn't just Jensen he had to worry about--though of course Jensen was high on the list. No confrontation, no mention of the previous night even? Not normal--because _JDM was so going to drag this piece of information out from the hotel_. Well at least they would not kill their own, and Jared was now one of their own, right? _Right?_

Well, not like he could do much at the moment. Jared realised as the all too familiar jolt reminded him the plane had touched down. Thankfully JDM was incapacitated upon the shores on the far side of the Atlantic for now.

Gatwick. Jared would prefer Heathrow but whatever, at least it's not Stansted. Not that he had a thing against budget airlines but those places could get rather crowded. Between Jared's priorities and experiences, the airport itself seemed rather nondescript. Big enough, functional design, but far from the most spectacular. Then again, they had not even bothered looking for the trains. Crave as he might to experience the rail networks of Europe, there was simply no negotiation when it came to the time-sensitivity of their mission. Alas, perhaps later then.

Jensen briefed him on their local contact. Collins. Very eye-catching person. Big, innocent blue eyes, quirky, and look out for the trench coat. Jared almost guffawed when Jensen said that on the plane because _hello, Captain Obvious!_ Really didn't tell much since quirky was kind of part of their job description. Blue eyes? Tom had those (via contacts anyway), Chad had those, literally anyone could. And it's the UK. Everyone wears long coats.

And he met Agent Collins. Jared thanked his ma for his upbringing.

Misha Collins, to be more precise. Jared had to admit Jensen was spot on in his description. Common characteristics when combined made for a very _outstanding_ individual. Reasonably tall and well-built (unlike Jared who jutted out of a crowd like a brick wall), the stubbles and that heavy beige trench coat should have contributed to a sense of maturity. Keyword being _should_. Like it should not be possible for the man to have retained any dignity jumping and waving his arms as he did.

Arms that Jared badly wanted to tear off the next moment as the shorter (Jared preferred the term "lesser") man glomped the pretty man beside him in a bear-hug. Although he really ought to remember when it came to touch-feely Jared himself was likely a worse offender. Jensen was truly to be sympathized with.

"Jared...Jared!" Jared was tugged out of his reverie by a punch to his shoulder and _oww did that hurt!_  "Gosh, Jensen, you could've dislocated it! Be gentler, won't you?" The blond promptly ignored his chagrin in favour of an eye-roll, "And Misha, this is that Jared guy I told you about. You two will bond well." Jared begged to differ as he noted Jensen's arm remained on Misha's shoulder.

Of course the car had to be Rolls-Royce, of course. With the classic umbrella. Jared _felt_ Jensen simply itching to drive the baby, wrong side of the road be damned. The engine accelerated in a smooth purr. As they glided down the road Jensen leaned into the front seats and Jared had to pinch his own thighs to stay stoic because honestly what was wrong with him? It’s like some freakish biological imperative. They had intercourse _once_ , and he’d ventured into the territory of possessive bastard.

"Misha, is there something wrong with Seb?" A very innocent question. Jensen did say he worked with Misha and his partner on a few prior occasions. Yet Misha swerved so violently Jensen was slammed against the door with Jared crushing him. It was quite some time later--though before Jensen regained his breath--that Misha finally gave an explanation. The British agent's prior vibrancy gone in a split second, as though it was never there, "Seb _is_ what's wrong."

The name Seb was hardly brought up again for the remainder of their trip. Misha seemingly switched effortlessly back to the quirky channel, made timely remarks on the merits of fake identities and twitter. Jared was sorely tempted to dig into the British agent's mind, though a look from Jensen stopped him.

The hotel was amongst the grandest Jared had experience thus far. From the grand exterior to the crystal chandeliers that lit its lobbies and halls. Their room was a blend of earthly tones and luxurious silk. Heavy, solid wood furnishings and marble-lined bathroom. Out of the balcony what Jared assumed was the Thames glittered weakly, between the illumination from a few stray lights and the receding rays of the setting sun. Jared had just put his luggage down by the sofa when his partner (for this mission, Jared reminded himself) suggested from the balcony, "You up for some sightseeing?"

Jared shrugged, aborted his mission of removing his hoodie and grabbed a jacket. His limited experiences told him if he failed to make use to whatever spare time, there may not be a second chance.

A few paces and they passed the famous black doors on Downing Street, all the more ominous-looking under the fading light. It felt a little strange, passing by a landmark just like that; then again, did everyone not do so in their own backyards?

One of the roads probably led to St James Park and the Buckingham, but Jensen took another turn and they walked across the Thames. Despite a few days of solid sunshine, the air retained a hint of damp chill so characterized by novels set in old London. They strolled along the river, came across several areas boarded up for construction, glimpses of graffiti--mashups of tasteful art and uncouth garbage--at corners and turns, and an occasional group of youngsters in ridiculous uniforms (three-piece suits, in Jared's opinion, more than qualified), and sometime between Blackfriars's Bridge and HMS Belfast they got their dinner. It was a little peculiar eating out of paper bags when one boarded at a five-star hotel. Well, that was his current state of life.

By the time they crossed back at Tower Bridge the crowds had dissipated considerably. The city lights painted a haunting, picturesque view on both banks, while the Thames became an endless dark pit. The reflections of lights swayed like the lure of an anglerfish, breathtakingly fatal.

"Well, Downing Street, London Eye area, the bridges, you've about seen this side of the Thames." Jensen shoved another chip into his mouth. Jared stared at those full lips. Glistening, tongue occasionally sweeping across the stray salt crystal...

"...hey! I'm asking if you've any suggestions?" Jensen sounded irritated. Jared had a "huh?" moment before he realized the other man had asked him a question, and to his horror little Jared got hard fantasizing those full lips. In an awkward bid to hide his "condition" Jared blurted, "Whichever is your favourite?"

Whether Jensen noticed any anomaly, he made no comment, just nodded in acknowledgement and headed in a certain direction.

"Sebastian was a mix of Scot and French. No one knows where Misha came from. He entered the programme young." The Jared before RISC would have protested in resentment at the idea of "using a child soldier". The Jared now was more worried about what Jensen might do to him as the streets got increasingly deserted. Ah well, their lives were pretty screwed as it was. Jared sighed. Jensen continued, "Sebastian Roche. I'm not sure if the databases still have his info. He's kinda Misha's mentor. Think Jeff, except more Brit." And Jared had to snort at that because _more Brit than JDM?_ Their boss was an exemplar of Ox-bridge!

"It's complicated. Or rather, it's simple on paper yet complicated by humanity." Despite the silence all around, Jensen was so quiet Jared strained to listen. "Seb had a daughter. Lost his wife to the job. Said daughter got kidnapped, something that wasn't supposed to happen." Jensen paused, pensive. In the background skyscrapers rose, fully lit yet somehow managed to look deserted in the late of the night. The lights casted shadows upon Jensen's face, further accentuated those already striking features. Really, if not for the guns strapped on them, Jared would have objected to them taking such a deserted route.

"Seb went rogue soon after they discovered her body. And Misha...I think he's got a crush on Seb. Because we knew Seb, Misha requested for RISC intervention. It's...as _personal_ a mission as it's official." Their footsteps rang especially loud on the empty road. Jared absentmindedly noted the station name Canary Wharf.

"Was there...a similar story behind what happened to Tom?" Jared paused. He had hesitated but ultimately decided to broach the subject. Chad avoided the topic of Thomas. It was only after months of dogged pursuit that Jared managed to get the full name. Tom Welling, MIT graduate. JDM? He'd just said Tom was a traitor and a douche and end-of-story.

There was silence on Jensen's end, the uncomfortable kind that made it known to Jared whatever he had guessed, it hit a little too close to home. The wind whistled, brought with it the sound of rushing water.

"You...knew?" Two words, and Jensen sounded so strained it was as though he'd spent all his energy to simply utter them. "Not everything. Name, school, and all there is in the official records. But...you're Jason Teague, weren't you?" Jared lowered his voice, hunched into himself a little. His entire posture was that one took on when approaching a cornered animal, for fear of spooking it. And a cornered animal Jensen very much was.

"The boyfriend part...it wasn't just for the mission. At least, it wasn't for me." Jensen turned his head away, and Jared knew the blonde was holding back tears. It was then that Jared noticed a trickle of blood down the other man's chin. Without thinking he took a step forward and cupped Jensen's face, pad of his thumb trailed along the droplet, gently pried open the clenched jaws, "Shh...I'm sorry. I won't press."

"No, you have a right to know. You'd find out eventually." Came the muffled voice as Jared rested his chin atop the shorter man's head.

"Not now, then." And Jared felt the body in his embrace relax, as Jensen gave a slight nod.

x x x

The bed was comfortable. Firm mattress, silken sheets and soft, fluffy pillows. The bathroom was a godsend, with separated shower and bath and a wall-mounted television. Yet Jared still lamented the lack of amenities. Correction, Jared lamented the lack of ability to enjoy said amenities, when he was dragged out of bed and shoved into the bathroom at 3 a.m. in the morning. At least the coffee machine would be well-used.

They'd went to some tube station starting with H-. Jensen straight-up picked the lock in under a minute (yes, Jared counted). They went in, the only way being down. Jensen jumped upon the tracks and sped off in a direction, knowing Jared would keep up.

Tunnels had a strange way with acoustics, as Jared long learned. So when he got to the point of being able to hear muffled conversations Jared switched to what he affectionately dubbed "head channel". Jensen was probably scanning their subjects' heads too.

Jared heard "I'm sorry" and "I've no choice, I can't let him weasel out again" and "I love you, please don't make me do this". The tunnel was dark, gloomy. The smell of sewage hung in the air. So eerily silent his ears were playing tricks on him. The bricks that lined the tunnel gave it some semblance to a catacomb. He'd turned to Jensen, who muttered, "They don't know about our abilities." Though in his head Jared heard the other man simultaneously 'say', "Last that I checked, those two didn't have the clearance level to know of RISC. But Seb might have figured something out. Those two definitely have the smarts." Jared was more or less used to communicating like this, not to say he no longer considered it weird. He wondered if Jensen saw his thoughts in pictures, or simply in words like a script.

And then he saw Sebastian--at least Jared guessed that was him, for there was another man, steel-grey hair, slightly on the built side, in an expensive-looking suit, lying on the ground by "Sebastian's" feet and evidently bleeding from somewhere. One look at Jensen confirmed Jared's guess. Sebastian was average height and a little scrawny. Not exactly Jared's idea of a "mentor". The trio were on the platform of an abandoned station, judging from the dilapidated state of the signs. Sebastian had his back to them. The dim light from the platform made it hard to determine if he was blonde or dirty blonde, though Jared could tell those sweater and slacks had seen better days. Misha stood across them, pistol raised and aimed at Sebastian's head. The latter had his trailed on the man by his feet.

"Misha, I'm sorry. But you know how much I lost." Sebastian's voice had a soft, lazy drawl. Jared might even label it "playful" had it not been weighed down by such world-weariness. "I won't blame you if you shoot me. This is the last culprit. I just can't let him go."

"Seb, life's not just about revenge." From their vantage point Jared could not see any details on Misha's face. Yet the voice sounded absolutely devoid of emotions. So _dead_.

"It has been, since my baby was taken away. I know he's been a father figure to you, your protection detail. I promise I won't run anymore." Hopelessness, despair, death...that tone encompassed them all. Jared grimaced at Misha's internal screams, "I love you. Have you ever loved me back?" So distracted was Jared by the blue-eyed man's anguish he did not notice Jensen raise his sawed-off shotgun until... "Bang! Bang!" Two shots ricocheted through the enclosed space. Red spread across Sebastian's back as he collapsed, eyes wide in disbelief.

As they emerged from the tunnel, Jensen tugged Jared by his sleeve. Jared saw Misha bend down to pluck the pistol from Sebastian's limp hand. The grey-haired man evidently thought he was safe now, until he stared down the barrel of that very same pistol he feared. And in a spray of red and white, he could think no more.

Out of the corner of his eyes Jared caught sight of Misha kneeling down beside Sebastian. He himself felt like he was chocking. Yet the next moment his full attention was on Jensen, who was tripping over his own feet trying to get away from the scene.

Jared's hand barely touched the other man’s arm when that beautiful face turned towards him, unmarred by the wet streaks through the grime. Jensen sounded hoarse as he said too quietly, "I shot him, so Misha won't have to."

x x x

"You know, it's far _too easy_ breaking into the Palace." Upon the grass patch a swan honked. "See, even the swan agrees. Maybe we shall try that before we leave, for keepsake, y'know." Though still rather affected by what happened that morning, after a refreshing bath and a few hours of sleep, Jensen was visibly chirpier. A few steps away and the Palace laid in all its splendour, the gilded gates shimmered so brightly under the afternoon sun it was painful to the eyes.

In a distance the building that was supposed to be covered in Ivy revealed patches of brick red. _MI6, where it all began_.

There he was, under the shade of the London planes, beige trench coat replaced by black. Misha's complexion took on an unhealthy pallor. "Sebastian Roche officially never existed." Though he retained an air of nonchalance, those big blue eyes were in silent mourn. Jared no longer felt anything as Jensen and Misha exchanged farewells of "we won't tell" and "hope you'd get over him".

When it was his turn Jared had to say, "Stay alive." As their hands unclasped he saw Misha mouth back, "I will."


	7. Round and Round

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! Crazy October, Exams November, and a December to tie the loose ends.

The night was cold. _Wintry_ , even. Though the calendar indicated they were still in the thrall of autumn. They sat in a corner of the pub, Jared nursing his tumbler of beer while Jensen calmly sipped his coffee. Outside the nearest window the dark cobblestone alley was lit only by feeble lights from shop windows, light and dark segmented in a pattern akin to zebras' stripes. If Jared were to pick a single word to describe this night it would be "routine".

"Jare..." "Jens..." They began simultaneously. Jared made a gesture for Jensen to go ahead.

"I...owe you an explanation. Sorry about that night. It means nothing." Jensen clearly did not whisper, but to Jared those words seemed to have been uttered so far away. Dim lights gave him the illusion of being in an old painting. Tired, yet nonetheless still so alluring. Jared wanted to jump up and slam the table. _Badly_. Wanted to lift Jensen by the collar and shake some sense into him because how could something of this calibre mean nothing? _What do you even view me as? A walking dildo? Just a sorry and pretend nothing ever happened?_

In a distance the Big Ben chimed. 23:00. Jared made a mental note.

Instead Jared turned back to his beer. There were still too many questions unanswered. About Tom. About Sebestian. That awkwardness lasted all the way back to Vancouver.

x x x

_Red-eye flights were called "red-eye" for a reason_. Jared was reminded of this sentence from Genevieve as he stared into the bloodshot eyes of his mirror image. It was already a lacklustre grey outside the window. The winds picked up and made this shrill whistle not unlike that of an eagle's cries.

He heard tapping. Could only be Jensen. Chad just got discharged and last that Jared checked, his regular partner was sound asleep. JDM was thankfully still safely tucked away in hospital for another day. Jared descended the spiral staircase, nimbly avoided rolling down the last few steps despite the lack of visual guidance. Jensen neglected to switch on any of the lights, the only light source being the tablet he currently worked his pen across. "Tap...tap...tap" the blonde was utterly engrossed in whatever that he was doing. Jared found the scene fascinating. Nonetheless Jared eventually cleared his throat, in an attempt to break the silence that was bordering uncomfortable, "Hey, what are you doing?"

Jensen was evidently unaware of someone being so close by. His mouth hung open for a minute and Jared thanked whoever up there that the shorter man gestured him over rather than pulled a gun--an action he had learned from experience that Jensen sometimes undertook when caught by surprise. The dim light further accentuated the other man's full lashes, even as they hid behind spectacles. Jared just wanted to pluck off those protective gears and _touch_ those fan-like brushes, feel them over his fingertips as the pretty man blinks.

"Facebook. Stalker hack." Jensen's monotonous reply knocked Jensen out of his little fantasy. Ah well, win some, lose some. At least topic's interesting. Jared felt his brows raise to incredulous heights, "They _have_ a hack?" before realising how silly the question was because _of course they do._

"You'd be surprised. Facebook, Twitter...so long as the content's on the net, there'd be a way to get to it." Jensen replied noncommittally, seemingly hypnotised by whatever world he submerged himself within. "Why, you're interested?"

"Well..." How was Jared to answer this? The prospect was most definitely alluring. No, alluring was an understatement of the greatest degree. He could know so much more about what his old life had become and yet...would he simply sink into the whirlpool of the past, drown himself in the longing that could never be?

"You know, you'll be able to know how Genevieve's doing." Was the sentence that tilted Jared's scales. Screw consequences, the more he tried to avoid thinking of Gen, the harder it hit whenever she was mentioned. _She's probably doing another internship if she hadn't already found a job._ Jared shook his head, all dreamy eyes and fond smiles. If he had paid more attention he would have noticed the grimace in those bottle-green eyes, the tensing of muscles in those beautifully angled jaws as Jensen pronounced his ex-girlfriend's name with considerable effort. Instead Jared said, "Let me get my laptop."

A few instructions later the only sounds that remained were the tapping of Jensen's pen on his tablet, and the barely-audible typing noises from Jared's keyboard. Each absorbed in their own world, a more innocent time wherein RISC played no part.

"Jared, you miss Texas?" Jared looked up upon the question, half-expecting to see Jensen staring inquiringly at himself in that squirrel-like way. Instead he found those beautiful greens to remain trained at that unimpressive screen. "I guess...sometimes. Though I actually miss Massachusetts more." Right, talking about Massachusetts. Gen looked alright, though still a little frail for Jared's liking. But she's a strong lady. He had to have faith in her. Not like he had another choice anyhow. And he probably would go look through Tom's pages sometime later. Kent, Welling, whatever. He would manage.

_Finally_ Jensen tore his attention away from the virtual world. He plucked off his protective spectacles with one hand, messaged the bridge of his nose with the other as though making a tough decision. Or perhaps just to reduce the tension from staring at the tiny screen for who-knew-how-long? Spectacles back on, Jensen still refused to meet Jared's eyes, instead opted to further mess up his spikes by running a hand through them, "About Tom. You should know...he's dead." Okay, yeah, so that part was no news to Jared, but he had a feeling what was to follow would be important.

Unfortunately, just like so many crappy fanfictions with downer cliff-hangers, the doorbell chose this crucial second to ring. Jensen jumped a little, before his expression shifted and he looked like some realisation suddenly dawned upon him.

"Gosh, I'm so sorry Jared! I completely forgot they said they'd come early! I promised the gang to hang out today." Jensen gnawed at his lower lip, seemingly torn between inviting Jared or not. "No prob. We'll pick up from here when you get back." God knows how _uncool_ Jared was with the decision of not inviting himself. But he wasn't sure. So he just went for the "safe" option and showed his dimples and hoped Jensen would not read too much into it. It did not exactly feel good when Jensen strode across him to answer the door. But the appreciative smile in his direction made it somewhat better.

From his angle Jared made out three people. A guy, brown-haired, square-jawed and stocky. A female, chocolate hair, high arched brows...but most definitely not someone Jared found attractive. Her eyes were too small, or maybe it's just that the lashes relied too much on mascara. Skin caked in too much make-up. And that smile that somehow crooked her face (or maybe it wasn't straight to begin with). No, she was not a beautiful person, especially clinging to Jensen's arm the way she did. The third person Jared could not get a clear look. Medium-long and light coloured hair, but judging from the girth it's a male. However Jared was not as concerned about their gender, for they was not the one clinging onto Jensen as though the other RISC agent was a prized trophy. No, the female had all of Jared's attention. Had he not known Jensen to be gay, Jared would have stood up with the intention of tearing her limb-to-limb. Even as of now he was sorely tempted.

The door shut. Jared turned back to his laptop. Might as well be productive rather than simmer in jealousy. Stalking Tom was a good start. Guy may be dead but Jared was genuinely curious as to what happened after Massachusetts.

"I see you've met Jensen's gang." The slightly boyish voice sounded behind Jared. How had he missed the footfalls of the other blonde in the team descend the staircase, Jared had no idea. Later, he would have been thankful for Chad's intervention. Had he browsed the pictures, Jared didn't trust if he could have not detested Tom then and there.

Chad glanced at Jared's monitor, an action Jared frowned upon to no uncertain irritation because _privacy, it's a gross invasion of personal privacy_. The other man did not seem to care much about Jared's thoughts though as he chuckled, "Man, you just don't give up, do you?" With no visible response from the team Sasquatch, Chad continued, "I'm catching up with a friend this afternoon. Just a beer. Open to something stronger. Wanna join?"

Jared shrugged an "okay" because _why the hell not_?

x x x

Stephen Amell, sergeant working hard towards inspector ranks, Mountie "O" division.

"That guy whom I mentioned I wanted to meet up with after we're done with the Ontario case, before we were so unceremoniously interrupted." Jared noticed Chad clutched just a tad tighter to the steering wheel and swerved a little more sharply than usual as he told him that.

So there they sat around a table with a dispenser of tanned amber ale. Stephen was apparently an acquaintance of Jensen and JDM too, although Chad proudly declared him to be "my hommie". Guy was around Jensen's height, with more sharp corners and bulkier muscles and less prettiness on a whole. Scruffy stubbles and hair shorn so short the brown looked almost grey. And baby blues that reminded overwhelmingly of Thomas. "Ah, Jared. Chad had high praises for you. As had Tom, before..." Even his manner of speech reminded Jared too uncannily of Tom, even if they shared little in common in tone and voice quality. An hour into their conversation peppered with footballs and cars and the juiciest gossips in the agencies Jared found Stephen to be very amicable company and quite unlike anyone he knew previously. Eloquent yet mild-mannered, Stephen was far more reserved than the likes of Chad and Jared. Yet not to the point bordering on shyness like Jensen.

"So, I take it Jared had met Jensen's gang?" Stephen asked at some point in time. By then they had long exchanged their draught for whiskey. "Seen, not met." Jared leaned into the table, placed his glass upon the coaster, "Tell me more about them." It was late afternoon, and from their corner of the establishment the trio could see scatterings of customers in search of an early dinner slowly filling up the rather vacant pub and restaurant. Jared got another reminder of how far up north he was, as light from the windows dimmed towards a shade of murkiness in the furthest corners of this place.

"Steve, Chris, Danni. Danni's short for Danneel by the way. They're CSIS, so I'm not too sure about their ranks. Apparently their department's on undercover, that much I know. Jensen cooperated with Steve and Chris on quite a few missions. Grew close as a result." Stephen sipped his whiskey, all suave and casual. He politely declined a smoke from Chad as he continued, "Danni's a little special. He'd met her at a bar, then mission came and BAM! They're on-and-off boyfriend/girlfriend, fuck-buddies, who knows whatever they are."

Jared almost chocked on the piece of ice that fortunately forced its way down his oesophagus, courtesy of tilting his head a little too wildly. "But...but I thought..."  _That Jensen was gay?_ Jared looked almost pathetic, face flushed from violent coughs. It did not decrease the lethality of daggers he glared in Chad's direction. Gone was the image of sophisticated Harvard lawyer-to-be turned surprisingly well-adjusted secret agent. Chad meanwhile raised both hands in defence, "Whoa! TMI, buddy. I myself wasn't even certain pretty-boy is interested in pussy till moments ago." Stephen just looked unapologetically amused.

By the time they parted ways the night was dark. Biting wind stirred the brick-red maple leaves of late autumn, yet did little to soothe away the effect of alcohol on Jared. Chad's drunken chatter was like some faraway choir, barely registering in his mind save as a constant drone.

Jensen and Dani... _Danneel_. It just didn't sit right with him, somehow. Jared felt _betrayed_ by Jensen, even if the logical part of his brain told him he had no right to be.

The living room lights were uncharacteristically bright. So much so it hurt Jared's eyes. He recalled another night. Same place, shrouded in darkness. He had fallen asleep listening to some training audio, and woke to a gorgeous face that casted upon him an unbreakable spell. Now said object of his musings was curled up on the couch, a hardcover on ballistics upon his lap. Everything seemed amplified all of a sudden. Their respirations rang loud in Jared's ears. His and his--Chad was already irrelevant. Those pouty, Jell-O lips, just inviting him to stick something in. Jared lunged forward to grab Jensen's shoulder, yet found his world in disorientation as he was slammed into the couch. Icy metal of a barrel dug into his throat.

"You're drunk." Was all that husky voice said, before the intrusive piece of metal was removed and Jared could finally inhale more freely as he watched Jensen's sleek retreating figure. If only Jared were less inebriated, he would have caught Jensen's wince.

The next few days were uneventful. They still had their break. Their break remained uninterrupted. Or that was perhaps a result of Jared avoiding Jensen to the best of his capabilities. He simply could not imagine facing the thunderstorm of emotions that threatened to rain down when he eventually faced those emerald greens.

This illusion was however shattered on a frigid morning, wherein Jared was unceremoniously dragged out of bed and callously thrown into an SUV. Jared learned that icy morning gales did wonders in waking one from sleep. Especially coupled with the now-familiar click of a gun's safety lock being released. Knowing all else to be futile, Jared did the first thing that came to mind and stared defiantly across the barrel. It was the first time since RISC that he felt cold fear. Different from the panic-fear experienced during his abduction as a result of mistaken identity. Jared could see the predatory glint at the bottom of JDM's eyes. A craziness that threatened to tear him apart limb-to-limb.

The fear, the chill, the stress from the suspense that clouded his mind ever since joining RISC. These accumulated had in fact calmed Jared down, spurred him to stare straight into JDM's eyes as he asked, "Why?" Those fox-tilted eyes, watery and innocent, a hypnotizing play of hazel and green amidst the build-up of misty morning. They reminded JDM so much of Jensen at their first meeting, even if the colour was closer to Tom's. JDM had to clench his jaw just to keep his gun steady, "First you sleep with Jensen. Then you avoid him. I'm giving you one chance to explain yourself. Right here, right now."

"First you threaten me on sleeping with Jensen. Now you drag me out half-asleep and point a gun in my face." Jared could feel the size of the gravel, through the thin fabric of his track pants and his bared elbows. Cold fear was gradually replaced by a glacial rage. A few weak strands of sunlight struggled through the white morning mist. Gloomy, and cold. The more Jared thought, the deeper was he ensnarled in a fit of rage. "Look, I'm fucking tired of y'all treating me like an outsider, yet miraculously expect me to know every taboo or rule there is to know!" Jared knew he was getting louder by the word. Frankly, he did not give a damn. He could almost see black tendrils creep into his field of vision, "And y'all just assume that Jensen's the victim. Has it ever crossed your mind I'm no less of a victim than J...arh!" A sharp stab in the head left Jared whimpering, crouched on the forest floor.

By the time Jared chanced a glance up, first thing he noticed was the red finger marks on JDM's neck, standing in stark contrast to the canvas of unhealthy pallor. Those tired-looking eyes were fairly blood-shot, and a sheen of moisture covered his face--whether from exertion or morning dew Jared could not tell. Guy was dressed in a rough-and-tumble ensemble of plaid, scuffed jeans, Carhartt jacket and worn cowboy boots. A far cry from his usual impeccable looks. The gun, fortunately, was lowered. Jared awkwardly stood up, hands high above his head, both palms facing JDM. They were in a clearing. All around, tall trees soared skywards to dizzying heights, trunks straight as pillars of Ancient Greek temples. Dry leaves crunched under his toes. Despite the growing lights JDM stood as unreal as Tom that night in the forest. Jared shuffled atop the hood of the SUV. The forest floor was harsh on bared soles, and the heat from the engine helped ward off the chill. JDM just leaned heavily against the driver-side door.

"You know, kid. I like you. You're not a bad kid. And you've got potential. I just don't know if I trust myself to trust you." JDM said solemnly. He took a packet of Dunhill from his pocket and offered one to Jared, who declined. JDM proceeded to take a few puffs and then lowered his hand, letting the cigarette burn out. He stared at the thin wisp of smoke, mesmerised, till it reached an end.

"Jared, no matter what Jensen tells you about Tom, know that I was the one who dealt the killing blow." JDM motioned for Jared to get into the car.

x x x

Jared almost lost his shoe on the way down the corridor as he was dragged by JDM--albeit more politely than prior--to CSIS BC branch, hoodie and all.

It was like any other building in the CBD-Yaletown area. Glassy, expensive-looking, cold. They walked down corridors that reminded Jared of some internships showcased during his orientation. Then they saw Jensen. Leather jacket, jeans and boots. Short dirty-blonde hair lathered in gel. He looked grim. "We've a new handler. It's Mark. Jeff, he's in there." Jensen made a short jerk with his head.

The door slammed shut with a resounding "bam!" along with JDM's entrance. Jared resigned himself to one of the uncomfortable-looking wooden benches along the corridor. Jensen retained his posture of recline against the wall.

"Jared, I don't know what's wrong that made you avoid me so. But...you should know this." Jared half-expected something drastic--like gunshots in one of the offices or a car crashing into their corridor--to cut Jensen off mid-sentence. Instead the blonde was able to continue unabated, "You know Tom's dead. What you may not know is, I was the one who killed him." Jared was sorely tempted to tell Jensen about JDM's revelation. Instead something compelled him not to. In his silence Jensen went on, "Jared, if you have the chance to do so, what will you sacrifice to go back to Genevieve?"

Jared scarcely had time to process the question before a third voice cut in with a whistle, "My dear Jenny-boy! My oh my, what a fine specimen have we here."


	8. Degrees of Domesticity (Mark Squared)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's commented and/or kudo-ed! <3 <3  
> *Whoot* Moose on the Loose on FB!!  
> Anyway a shout-out to any interested party: How I’d love a Sam & Dean body-swap episode…surely it’s not too much to ask for?

"My dear Jenny-boy..." That honeyed, cultured, somehow slimy voice had Jensen so swiftly on alert he nearly slammed his shoulder into the very wall he leaned against. Jensen really had not the desire for an additional plate in his body, thank-you-very-much.

Short, squat, impeccable suit and hair and that forever-bored expression. "The King of Hell" as Misha so affectionately dubbed him, stood as constant as Jensen had remembered. And a little too in the flesh and blood to Jensen's likings. A look at the team's resident puppy/sasquatch told Jensen the latter too did not take too kindly to the other man's comments. Good.

"Bored of MI6 so quickly? And here I thought you'd last longer." Jensen attempted as glacial a tone as he could muster. It had the unfortunate effect of gliding past Sheppard as smoke upon water. The man's expression did not change even diminutively as he flicked a wrist in a dismissive manner, "Nah, a fresh breath once in a while does good to you, my dear boy."

Jensen glared at the retreating figure long and hard.

Though by far Sheppard had given them no reasons for suspicion--Jensen had to actively remind himself that they had almost no prior collaborations--yet the man somehow unnerved him. He thought he heard Jared question, "Who was that?" Jeff chose this exact moment to exit the room.

Jensen stared straight into those soft brown eyes, said solemnly, "We have an issue. Mark and Mark." Jeff paused for a moment, as if digesting this new information. Then condensed his thoughts into a single expressive word, "Fuck."

x x x

"So..." Someone, either Jeff or Jared, began. Both men along with Chad were seated on the L-shaped couch, either a mug or tumbler in hand.

The fire-place, which in Jensen's opinion was an unpainted, upturned version of the infamous Captain America shield, was lowered and hovered precariously above the coffee table. Jensen noted Chad's indignant squawk as Jared appropriated the former's 30oz stainless steel tumbler, thereby reducing the blonde to one of the lesser mugs. _Such old couple_. Jensen huffed as he turned his attention back to the task at hand--topping off his (very normal 24oz) glass tumbler with ice from the kitchen bar.

Jeff and Chad (and Tom) had on many occasions pointed at the incongruity of it all, both the ice and the tumbler. What else could Jensen say but "old habits die hard"?

"...essentially what you're saying is that you guys have already formed bias towards Pellegrino based on Tom's words and Jensen's hunch alone? No offense to Tom and Jensen but..." Jared trailed off, looked up and smiled appreciatively as Jensen handed him two jumbo marshmallows to go with Chad's hot cocoa.

Ah, of course. Mark number one, Pellegrino. Guy's with CSIS longer than Jeff's been with RISC, so naturally had acting down to the point of fine art. He collaborated with Tom on a number of occasions, and in the late agent's words Pellegrino was "not particularly physically repelling yet abhorrent by virtue of his inability to comprehend words that did not suit his desires." Or, in Jensen's translation, a clingy, self-absorbed pest. To hell with subtlety. Then again, he considered that Tom did not have the most brilliant resume. Jensen himself had only seen the man once. Pellegrino's attention was all on Tom, yet the man still gave him the creeps. Cerulean orbs somehow did an impersonation of black holes. Thin lips in a smirk that seemed cruel.

Pellegrino projected a different sort of discomfort from the other Mark. It was the sort of volatility that had one on the tip of their toes, a ticking bomb without a timer. Guy had risen in ranks since his collaboration with Tom, considering he now handled a team as secret as theirs. _Or perhaps it was his experiences with Tom_. Jensen thought bitterly before being struck by a thought that left his hair standing on the ends. _Jared_. How would Pellegrino react to a team sans Tom, yet with a "replacement" so similar?

"Jeff, about Pellegrino, you managed to glean if he's here on orders or volunteered?" Jensen asked amid crunching a piece of ice. Jeff understood what he meant. "There were orders, yes. Yet, and this worries me the most, I wasn't able to read all his thoughts." Jensen gnawed at the rim of his tumbler. _Not good._

Jared interjected, but not because of Jensen, "But I thought we're not supposed to be reading people's minds?"  _Not good on so many levels_.

"Orders from above." Jensen knew a lie when he saw one. The twitch of muscle behind Jeff's ear was a dead giveaway. Jared too did not look entirely convinced, yet fortunately decided to let the matter rest. "So that concludes Pellegrino's purpose. Anyone can tell me dafaq is Sheppard doing here?"  _Chad_. Jensen was not above serenading the other man for changing the topic.

Jeff's mug was typical. Heavy, thick, white with a typographic JDM as the only decoration. Jensen was describing Jeff's mug because their de facto leader just took a long draught of black coffee from said mug. The action was warranted. For it was after all _Mark Sheppard_ that they were discussing.

MI6 agent with clearance through the highest level of security, a record as impeccable as his person. Which irked Jensen to no end because he just _knew_ there was something wrong in there. Sheppard forever had a benevolent smile on his face, one that never failed to cause Jensen discomfort. He was in essence Mycroft Holes with a Game of the Thrones twist.

Jensen lifted his tumbler for another gulp when Jeff replied, "Hopefully not us. At least, the top gave no indication of his involvement in any of our activities." Chad pulled out his Mi3 to adjust the temperature. The roaring flames before them simmered into a slow burn. "So Jared, still miss your old life?" The shortest guy on the team asked as he tucked away his phone.

"It's hard not to. But Gen's…Genevieve's doing pretty well, considering. I suppose that helps." Ah, so Jared still kept close track. _Must have been real glad for the hack I taught him._  "I'll go and check out Sheppard with Misha." Jensen said as he chugged down the last of his coffee, ice and all. He thought he heard someone ask, "Him and Collins..."

x x x

Jensen idly tapped the opened windows tab. Listened to the busy tone from Skype (with a few "extra precautions", naturally). Waiting. Despite the ominous red of receding lights that sneaked in from his window, both the main light and table-top lamp were switched to full brightness, blinding like equatorial sun.

The line went through.

Misha looked...Misha. The five-o'clock shadow was as per usual, neither scruffy nor overtly neat. Those big, watery baby blues as unreadable as the first day Jensen saw him. It was as though Sebastian never were...or that he still is. But Sebastian was their domestic affair. Sheppard isn't.

"Jensen, to what do I owe you this pleasure?" That growly voice came through, tainted by static. Even with knowledge that the other agent was using a high-resolution camera, Misha's face still seemed pixelated in Jensen's eyes. "A favour. How much can you dig up on Sheppard? Mark Sheppard." Jensen asked. From the other end of the connection he saw Misha shake his head. Jensen ran a hand through his dirty-blonde strands. Not a good sign.

"The King of Hell? Nothing I know that you won't. You'd have better luck hacking it from your end. At least they'd have to go through more paperwork for the arrest." Misha gave a wry smile, "Gossips, though. Seb..." Misha stopped himself mid-sentence. When he began anew he spoke in a much louder voice, as though it helped in any mysterious way, before he realised the discordance and continued in an abrupt decrescendo, "There's rumours going around. Guy's in Canada for a personal vendetta. The other half goes that he's running from something." Jensen nodded at the information. With rumours, there's always the word called "chance".

"So do y'all know where these rumours started?" A department, a general direction. Jensen knew he was pushing it. Only God knows (maybe even _that's_ only in part) how their dear departed friend from MI6 got his information. So he stared intently at the front-camera, trying to convey as much emotions as possible through the virtual connection. "Try looking south?" Jensen gave a mirthless laugh at the reply. Misha-speak for go figure.

"How are you and the other guys...Jared still kicking?" Misha asked in a mix of curiosity and something Jensen could not decide was genuine concern or schadenfreude. "For now. Sometimes I just feel like the chick of the team...goddamnit I'm not some damsel in distress! I've put down guys even Jeff and Tom had trouble with." Misha nodded on the screen. Jensen scrubbed a tired hand across his face, Texan heavy in his voice, "Ye goin' to call me out for fucking things up screwin' around, aren't ye?"

"Only with Welling, my dear, only Welling. Jensen, Jared is not Tom. My only qualm lays in him transforming you into this hormonal teenage girl. Gosh, I feel infected." Misha's voice came through, nonchalant as usual with his special brand of weird. Jensen went along with this logic, "Thank you, Misha, for being one of my few platonic friends."  _Thank you, for asking these questions. For being there for me to talk to. For just being._

The blue-eyed man sighed in resignation, "I'll keep you posted on the gossips." Jensen reached for a hidden sensor on the inner rim of his glasses, instantly hiding those emerald greens behind a reflective sheen as Misha spontaneously terminated the conversation. Far lights dotted Indian ink beyond the windows. The bright lights and eerie silence gave Jensen a moment of surreality, before he forced himself to flick the switch, enveloping the room in the black of the night.

x x x

Owing in part to his less-than-stellar mood, Jensen could touch the gloominess that seeped into his room along with the soft platter of the drizzle. Made all the more wretched by the vast emptiness resulted from the entirety of furniture being squeezed by the window. Space that once brought solace now wound like a constrictor upon Jensen's chest. Perched high above the enlarged window in his loft bed, Jensen imagined a mega-storm, poised to crash through his window, his walls, any moment as many a good movie portrayed.

Nothing came through from anywhere. No one. _None, nada, nil_. Jensen sighed in irritation. He had thought Jeff would be a little more enthusiastic about Sheppard's little surprise visit.

Jensen managed to catch Jeff at a timing nostalgically inopportune. Jeff was back late (as per usual), and Jensen just happened to have woken up in the middle of the night and got himself a drink. Jeff just _froze_. Forgot to switch the lights on. As though he'd seen a ghost rather than a team-mate he would trust his life upon the hands of.

Guy radiated sex. It certainly did not help that Jensen was the most apt amongst the team at reading body language, fringe benefit of being an optic. Rumours had it Jeff had hooked up with someone from the medical department. Jensen told himself he would not care. Instead he seethed. They stared blankly at one another for a while. Jensen was the one who broke the silence, "I know you regretted Tom, regretted bringing us together...regretted sleeping with me." Jeff responded by enveloping Jensen in a hug. Tight, every curve fitting seamlessly. His mouth over his, silencing the drone that seemed too loud all of a sudden. "Jensen, you're sleeping with Jared." He said between gulps of air. It wasn't a question. "You'd never let your phone by your side, even with me. The only times in my memory were after you and Tom..."

Jensen struggled, pushed him away, "Jeff, Jared is not Tom." The night was like a vault door, blocking them from one another's inner turmoil.

 _When had we come to this?_ The overbearing silence was unlike any previously between them. Jensen could almost hear a flutter of some insect's wings in one of the dark recesses, late autumn as it was. Creature may very well never see the lights of tomorrow. It felt like they were in a void, sound being the only proof of their existence.

Jensen felt something pry at the edge of his mind. Weak, probably unintentional, but it was there. Essentially harmless, for Jensen could easily block it from accessing his thoughts, but Jeff was powerful. Or should one prefer a more precise term, sensitive. Any slight, even accidental prod had the potential of divulging undesirable information. If Jensen had his way he would have thrown Jeff out, courtesy be damned. But Jensen had only too recently been reminded of what he was capable of. To put it simply, he did not want to hurt a teammate anymore.

"Jeff, stop. I can feel ye gettin' into my head." The prod halted at these words. At the same time Jeff turned hurriedly towards the spiral staircase. Turned his back on Jensen. By the faint light from the balcony Jensen saw Jeff lift a hand towards his face as he spoke, "Jay...I can only promise, I won't be the one to kill the new kid."

"I...good enough." Jensen tried to sound cheerful, yet was convinced he failed miserably. "Thank you." These last two words were muttered. But he knew Jeff heard them anyway.

x x x

He was _so_ going to die. Jensen had scarcely leapt over the fallen tree-trunk, clutching his bleeding palm, before these thoughts sprang up in mind. A few more shots landed by his heel, prompted him to seek cover behind a nearby pile of boulders.

How had he ended up in this predicament? Jensen put 95% of the blame on Jared.

He thought he had to go find Jared, warn him a little about Pellegrino. What he did not count on was Jared finding him. Things went awry sometime between Jared approaching alongside Pellegrino, and Jared questioning him on his relationship with Misha. Pulling out a gun was probably unwarranted. Whereas Tom would have knocked the gun away and then continued the conversation, Jared simply said, "We need some time to calm down." Then turned and fucking walked away. Goddamnit hadn't anyone taught the kid never to show his back to a gun-toting _anyone_?!

Jensen felt for the knife that he knew was fitted into his hunting boots. His gun was knocked away alright, hence the bullet wound on his palm.

In his pent-up fury Jensen had hot-wired some random motorbike and went for a cruise. What he did not count on was the tire bursting in some isolated backroad and sent him careening off the road and there were the gunmen waiting.

Jensen peeked over the edge of the boulders. He had counted two men. Now there was only one. Doesn't matter. Jensen prowled closer to the guy. Just a bit closer, and a little more. _There_. In one swift move he gave a hard shove towards the assailant's mind. Had the second guy been in vicinity, he would have been blinded as well. (Jeff theorized it probably resulted from "some sort of energy release".) Jensen sprung out from his hiding place, knife ready. Kicked the gun from the assailant's hand and drove the hunting knife hard into the jugular.

That was when he heard the distinctive "pop" of a silenced shot. A "flop" indicated the fall of a body. Not Jensen's.

"My dear Jenny-boy. I had generously lent you my Triumph, then saved your life. Is a drink too much to ask for?" That familiar, irritating voice of a serpent. Jensen rolled his eyes. Sheppard stalked out from the shadows. How he managed that untarnished suit and tie ensemble in a godforsaken forest was anyone's guess.

Jensen put on what Danni called his "flirtatious smile", and nodded in the general direction of civilization, "Who says I'm not inviting?"


	9. Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is one of the hardest chapters thus far. It really stretched my imagination, but well, I. did. it!  
> And I truly celebrate Jensen’s twitter account. Makes it so much easier to refer to his manner of speech in text form.   
> And let’s just say, Jared is NOT a harmless puppy.  
> Trigger-warning (?): the assortment of behaviors displayed by a lot of people in this fic are not normal…in fact, I’d be worried if they are since I’m trying to portray the psyche of people a little mental.  
> Interesting fact: had initially wanted to name this chapter Soixante-dix-huit, but and set it on either I-78 or Highway 78, but then I wanted to move further North so was like, “forget it”.

It was surprisingly easy hiding a hand wound beneath fingerless gloves. With some bandages and they were good to go. _What did it say about their lives, that even a bullet through the palm was little deterrent?_ The foggy gold of the Sidecar twirled like tumultuous clouds in the cocktail glass. Jensen jumped, nearly attacked as he felt a hand on his shoulder, then remembered why he was here in the first place.

Out of the corner of his eyes Jensen observed Sheppard adjust his cuff before reaching for his rock glass. The rich honey of Jack Daniels sloshed as the other man took a sip. Music was slow, booming in his ears. Thrummed along with the throb in Jensen's temples.

"We shoulda get goin'." Jensen mumbled half-heartedly. _One_ drink, he had promised. Bleary eyes glanced at his handphone screen. Close to midnight. Not like it mattered. They'd just as well spend the night together, for all Jensen cared. In a back alley open mouths probed. They gripped onto one another like drowning men.

Or the night would have gone in that general direction, had Sheppard not chosen that moment to slump onto Jensen, snoozing.

The Barbie-eyed agent rolled his eyes, hastily righted his collar, stuffed the Brit (and the other agent's wallet) into a passing cab and offered a little prayer regarding the driver's integrity. In retrospect, this probably lamp-shaded how the night was set to progress. Had Jensen gotten a hint then he probably would have turned heel and ran. As it was, he returned to their apartment as per routine.

It was probably another sign, or maybe it was just his trembling hands, that Jensen only slid the key into place after a handful of attempts. A task he had effortlessly executed previously, even when bordering unconsciousness _and_ carrying someone who had succumbed to unconsciousness. Paying no heed to the minor ruckus made as he stumbled through the front door, Jensen scarcely had time to adjust to the darkness before the lights bore down in eye-searing intensity. Awesome, now his eyes hurt too.

When Jensen finally ventured to open his eyes, the first image he saw was of Jared, ramrod straight on the couch. "What's with the entire 'cheating spouse' act that seemed to gain sudden popularity," Jensen had wondered for a split-second. But the predatory glare Jared directed at him worked better than any of the so-called 'instant cure', made him swallow his words. Then before his brain could keep up Jared was before him. Touching, scrutinizing. And then Jared grabbed him by the collar and shoved their mouths into a bruising kiss. There was another thug on his shirt. Jensen thought Jared intended to lift him off the ground by his collar.

Shiny emeralds followed mechanically the arc of a button as it hit the floor, before Jensen's brain registered the ripping sound. And then there was a dull 'thump'. "Who was it?!" Jensen heard Jared ground out, voice ferocious and in complete discord with his usual image. Jensen's spectacles got knocked off sometime between the alley and the toggle with Jared, so when he lifted his head he stared straight into those fox-tilted eyes. Still pleading, puppy-like, but there was no doubt a clear display of alpha-male dominance. Images flashed before his eyes unbeckoned. A fresh bite mark upon gold-dusted collarbone that Jensen belatedly recognized as his own. Then a picture of himself spread out upon decadent magenta sheets, utterly debauched, face flushed and arse dripping come and blood. Jensen knew he ought to be horrified. Instead he felt arousal. It was weird, he would have freaked out had his mind been less hazed. _Narcissism at its finest_.

Without thinking Jensen answered, breathless, "Sheppard." A low animalistic growl later Jensen's world turned topsy-turvy, the wind knocked out of him was he was slung over Jared's shoulder, carried...somewhere.

Jensen got his answer as he was dumped like a sack of potatoes upon something soft. Further inspection revealed that Jared did some major redecorations to his room. The bed Jensen now sat on was a sturdy queen. A solid four-poster draped in rich purple linen. There was a wooden writing desk by the window, a proper if moderately-sized wardrobe, and even a full-sized dresser. Jensen would have jested the lack of drapery over the posts, were he not too busy evading those huge, groping hands in his attempt to make his way to the door. Unfortunately the potency of the Sidecar was not to be underestimated. Jensen's compromised reaction was no match for Jared, and this time Sasquatch was smart enough to disarm him somewhere at the front door. Jensen berated himself for throwing away the bloodied dagger before his drinking episode with Sheppard, as his hand came up empty from his boot.

The split-second hesitance was sufficient for Jared to get close enough to use size to his advantage. Jensen found himself blanketed under six feet and four inches of muscles, with no room for manoeuvre. Arms tangled in his torn shirt, Jensen got a mouthful of those long brown tresses as a hot mouth clamped down upon his throat.

A tug on his jeans, and cool air hit his butt-cheeks. Jensen cursed himself for wearing low-rise. But then again, high-rise probably would not survive Jared at all. Then warm hands covered the globes, kneading. The snap of plastic cap casted the die. Jensen just _knew_ , as he felt the burn of two finders probing his hole, there would be no Chad walking in on them. No Jeff kicking in the door. _Was this the Sword of Damocles finally coming down?_

Jensen gave one last-ditched effort, tried to break the barrier to Jared's mind, but was instead bombarded by images of himself in various wanton postures. Jensen's breathing quickened, blood rushed south.

Reality merged with the imaginary. Jensen could feel those long, artfully shaggy tresses between his fingers. The burn as Jared's length--most definitely _proportional--_ breached his hole. The texture as those muscles knot and ripple beneath sweat-slicked skin. Then he saw _her_. Petite, bold features, long dark hair. Full lips stretched into a wide smile before a backdrop of setting sun. Brown eyes playful yet shadowed by the sorrow of loss. Jensen felt hot tears fall, boiling down his cheeks. Something warm, rough, wet wiped them away. In a distance these was a voice saying something in panic. Then it was blackout.

Jensen woke to a strange ceiling. A 5-spot ceiling track upon plain white background, discoloured where once different wiring was laid. Two tall, simply-carved pillars protruded from somewhere above his head, and the previous night hit Jensen like a freight train. He moved, tried to sit up, but his arse was sore and his back felt like it was on the verge of breaking apart. Thankfully the sheets were fresh, deep navy instead of royal purple. As was he, or as fresh as one could manage on a hung-over morning with a bullet wound on their person. His hand was stitched and bandaged, and he was stark naked under the sheets.

Jensen blindly grappled in the wardrobe, before trudging downstairs.

In the open-planned kitchen stood the last person Jensen desired to see this particular morning. Yet he was somewhat glad Jared stayed. By then Jared had spotted him too, staring down from the spiralled acrylic-wood staircase, all bed-face and unkempt hair, yet no less angelic. An oversized turtleneck and knit sweater hilariously mismatched to skinny jeans. Jensen fell back on reflex when he noticed Jared advance in his direction. He idly wondered why had he not bothered to look for his lost gun. Or at least raided Jared's room (Or Chad's. Or Jeff's.) before coming down.

Jensen wasn't sure he would trust himself to say anything. So instead he limped over to the mug. He _felt_ Jared's face light up at this. "Don't. Just don't say anything." Jensen fisted his left hand through dirty-blonde strands before slamming them upon the granite countertop, right fingers loosely curled around the mug behind bandages. Their non-conversation was interrupted by the familiar click of the front door lock. He saw Jared freeze, gulped visibly. Jeff came through, hair tousled, collar rumpled and eye bags heavy beneath bloodshot eyes. If he noticed Jensen's too large shirt he chose not to comment. All of a sudden Jensen was glad that the extra length covered his damaged fly.

The atmosphere permeated unease, and it was not all due to Jared and Jensen. The morning light was a cold white through the balcony and the wide picture windows. Chad was nowhere to be seen. It was just the three of them again, like ice sculptures in the chilly air. Then Jeff spoke, "There's a new mission. I need the two of you to set off _now_. Anchorage. Take the highway." Jensen spared a look at Jared. Eyes narrowed, jaws clenched. The usually pink lips (that reminded Jensen of fluffy bunnies) now bloodless. Even the hair seemed to droop like a sad puppy's ears. He knew Jared had questions, yet didn't feel comfortable voicing them.

But really, he himself had paramount questions. So ignoring the slow burn in his back and arse, Jensen trudged towards his room, mindful of keeping his gait as normal as he could manage, "So how about Chad?"

Jeff shrugged, barely suppressed a yawn, "Probably somewhere in Peru. Or Brazil."

 x x x

"Something's not right." Jared declared as they were well on their way. The green of conifers a jagged blur flashing past them. They decided to go with a Chevy. Porsche or Jaguar, either just begged for unwanted attention. Jensen rolled his eyes, "There's a lot that's not right. You've got to be more specific." The car horn gave a short, awkward splutter as Jared rammed the heel of his palm upon the steering wheel. Hazel eyes squinted in the rear-view mirror, "You damn well know what I meant."

Jensen saw the giant paw extend towards the storage compartment of the centre console, presumably for the customized earbuds to end this conversation once and for all. Jensen put a hand over Jared's, stationary but firm. His other hand reached for his spectacles, adjusted them till there was only the barest hint of shade. Unsatisfied, Jensen ripped off the offending accessories and threw them upon his lap. "Enlighten me, was it Jeff sending us off rather than the usual him-me, you-Chad combinations, or was it Jeff sending Chad to South America, or that he sent us driving?"

The car clock read 17:00. The sun was touching the horizon and there were no accommodations in sight. Jared's right hand aborted its previously intended path, instead reached up and rubbed tiredly at the bridge of his nose.

The motel room they ended up in was classic. Two queens, small bathroom and a kitchenette. Tired sign that looked like it had seen many a harsh winter. Creaking hinges and peeling paint. Duvets a colour that was a throwback to the 80s. Jensen sat cross-legged on his bed sipping his milkshake as he watched Jared chow down his chicken cutlet.

"You know, I'll feel more comfortable if you get your hand checked out." Jared finally broke the silence. Jensen simply shrugged, enamoured with a spot of dirt on the dull wallpaper, "Didn't hit bone. Don't worry, it won't impede me much." And then that voice slithered into his head, " _You have no idea how scary it was, all the bloody handprints that night."_  Jensen shivered. _When did Jared get so powerful, able to creep past his mental barrier without him even noticing?_ Jared and Jeff and Tom. They were people of a different league.

"Jared. Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Head." Jensen bit out. The presence was gone in an instant, and Jared adopted that guilty-puppy look that indicated it was an accident. Jensen decided to give him the benefit of doubt. But _definitely not_ because of those puppy eyes.

Jensen shifted again, finally settled for a prone position on his stomach, delicately balancing his milkshake at the foot of his bed. His arse was still decidedly sore, no thanks to the other occupant of this room. Jared was by now done with his supper, and moved to open one of the windows. Just a tiny slit. Jensen watched mesmerized as breath fogged up in the cold of the North, moonlight contouring hard angles upon the face.

"You received any email?" The shorter agent asked. This mission as too unusual. From Jeff's weariness when announcing this mission to the specific order for them to take the most inefficient mode of transportation short of hiking. Jared fished out his blackberry, fumbled around a little before he nodded, "Yeah, it's in. We're supposed to go meet someone called Dick. But not to live in the accommodation he'd arrange." Jensen just drummed his fingers against his milkshake.

x x x

Under any other circumstances Jensen himself would have joked on the name. Richard "Dick" Speight Jr., CIA operative. He recalled Jeff mention the guy on a number of occasions. Guy started in undercover. Guy was short…like _really_ short. That was about it.

The drive was long, snowy peaks and coniferous forests, an uncanny resemblance to Middle Earth. Jensen struggled not to fall asleep though, for even the most ethereal scenery gets tiresome after a full day of stepping on the gas pedal. He really had to applaud Jared, who repeatedly refused to recede control of the steering wheel, even though Jensen assured him his hands were _completely_ fine.

The air of Anchorage had a quality of saturation despite the crisp chill. The winds were scented moisture and salt. It drizzled the day of their arrival, what little of Turnagain Arm they could see were disrupted by the sparse raindrops much reminiscent of black spots upon long-archived films. 

Finding Speight was the easiest part. There was, after all, a practical purpose in the existence of mobile phones. It was coincidental that Speight sported a similar hairstyle to Jared. Even more surprising that they were both acquainted to an individual named Stephen Amell, Mountie O-division.

Fine gravel crunched beneath heavy boots. Speight insisted they "take a little walk around the city" that ended in them half-way across the place. Snow had yet to fall, and the rugged terrain proudly showcased the pristine frontier. Bare branches and yellowed grass still retained a hint of green here and there. Heavy clouds and crystal clear sea. The raindrops freezing as they hit Jensen's neck where his scarf failed to cover, blushed the tips of their ears and noses. Jensen knew it was rare to come by such a chance of touring Alaska, yet he just wanted to get to a hotel room, curl up upon warm sheets and away from this miserable weather.

It was a high-end hotel that Speight brought them to. Crystal chandeliers coated the lobby in a warm, expensive glow. Jensen spared little time lamenting the waste of such a fine hotel room. Not like they would actually stay in any hotel room much. Except maybe the worst ones, Murphy's Law. Moreover he was more concerned on what Speight slipped Jared before the CIA agent ushered them up the lift.

Jensen skittishly fiddled with the edges of the two thick manila envelopes that Speight handed him, worried his plush bottom lip with his teeth. Occasionally spared a glance at Jared all the way to their (assigned) room. As Jared locked the door, Jensen scanned the room. He pondered briefly at the window before dragging Jared into the spacious bathroom. "What was it that the guy handed you just now?" He asked in a hushed tone, low and husky. Jared's reply was wet hot upon his ear, sending tingles down Jensen's spine, "The surveillance timetable." Jensen's grip was white-knuckled upon the huge marble countertop of the sink.

"And you trust him?" The bathroom was tiled an extravagant gold and white. Sink and bathtub rims lined with pale marble. Solid and cool to the touch. "Won't know unless we tried it." was Jared's reply, as he proceeded to sit on the ledge of the bathtub, which by some miracle did not seem toy-sized in comparison. "You do realise it may well be a trap?" Jensen helpfully reminded as he threw one of the envelopes at Jared. Huge paws caught it with ease. Jensen peeked into the one left in his own hands. Must have thrown Jared _Wesson_.

Their "other room" was of comparable comfort, and for that alone Jensen was willing to give Speight the benefit of doubt. If nothing else, he's a good host. Their instructions just indicated they couldn't stay in the one arranged, and there were plenty of good ones in the region. So why not get the best while they were at it?

Leaning against the headboard, the blonde pulled a bound booklet from his envelope. It wasn't thick at all. All the more worrisome, for it indicated very little information on part of the prior recon. _Siren_. So far all they had down was the name. Jensen threw down the booklet. He turned and was unexpected confronted by his mirror image, too-large greens staring straight back in a zoned-out trance. For a moment there Jensen thought the window had a black-out function, then remembered they were in Alaska. Siren wasn't the average terrorist organization. Hell the recon hadn't even gotten the agenda down. All they knew was its involvement in creating havoc amongst the State's high-level intelligence personnel, in the form of blackmail and leaks. Identity? Red tape. There were also unsubstantiated suspicions that the organization was behind the fatal identity exposure of certain crucial undercover agents. Although even the suspicions were not with a hundred percent certainty. They thought it probably operated out of North America, but once again, no evidence.

Jensen turned to Jared, "Speight said they've a suspect from Siren. Gosh we're not even sure it's really the name of the organization, or just some disposable code. But he said CIA knew of RISC's "interrogation expertise", so they'd asked for help. Jeff sent two."  _If they asked for help, the least they could do was full disclosure_. The last bit was left unsaid. Jared leaned against the headboard, one knee bent, fingers tapping atop. He had grown out his fringe, and now long hair curtained his face. And now his eyes were closed, head leaned back against the headboard, _thinking_.

That night, Jensen was awoken by light from Jared's laptop. "Whatcha doin'? Long day 'morrow." He had slurred. Jared mumbled something inaudible in response.

x x x

"I understand that you have your concerns. No, I bet that's an understatement..." Jensen smirked as he watched from behind the observation mirror. It forever perplexed him how Jared could seem simultaneously so benevolent yet intimidating. In his mind Jensen stood witness to flashing scenes. Lush valley with charming wooden cottage tucked between snow-capped peaks. A nondescript scenery that told only the latitude. Small-town streets, low-rise buildings. An ATM. Jensen made a note on the account number. Jared exited the interrogation room as Jensen exited his. They shared a _look_. His fellow agent probably "heard" his fair share.

They started somewhere. A name, an address, an account. And then there'd be a face to match. Like the previous it was plain, ordinary. Brunette, average height and build. Neither handsome nor pretty nor ugly. Forgettable. Replaceable.

They were in a cafe. A stationary car had the potential of being suspicious on these lonely roads. Last thing they needed was hunting down an organization in hiding while laying low themselves with the local authorities hot on their heels. The man was on the opposite street. Chatting to some storeowner, as regular an Alaskan as one got. While his mind...just _woah_. Jensen was torn between whether to blush or to gag. He thought he saw Jared freeze for a second. Muscles all jerky and stiff. "Interesting thoughts, huh?" It was Jared's comment that had Jensen mortified, realized he had just been caught staring. Jensen managed a dry laugh.

Guy had moved on, but then they'd had their share.

Really, it was a rather genius way to deal with illicit negotiations. Between the Northern Wilderness, the fjord lands. This was after all the very premise for the Isdal woman. With perhaps a good scenery in accompaniment while ridding someone as per one desires. Morning up North was bleak. The frigidity less one of early winter and more because of the gloom. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick clouds, and everywhere were relics of winter storms, in the form of fallen trees and collapsed motorbikes. And the occasional tourist sliding across roads that had the barest hints of icing over. Jensen stared listlessly out of the hotel window, adjusted his scarf as he waited for Jared to freshen up from his morning jog. Guy is either a health-nut or just plain crazy to be out jogging in this weather. Should he remind Jared the comforts of hotel gym more than compensates for "fresh air"?

Honestly media portrayal was not even _close_ to what they did. Boring paperwork that had them late into the night. Scrolling through databases for references and substantiations that never failed to rile Chad up.

Closing in on a suspect wasn't necessarily waiting in the cruiser and staring at them, nor was it the entire "keep a respectable distance and doggedly pursue" act. Sometimes it just involved subsisting on barely-legal caffeine tablets and listening intently to incoming reports on coordinates while driving towards another destination using a different route. All the while with an insufferable colleague yammering in the backseat.

"Agent Speight, you seem... _very_ eager to bring down Siren." Jensen commented simply as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. Glancing to his right, Jared had a bemused albeit disapproving expression. He couldn't exactly see the CIA agent who was seated behind him, but Jensen could almost feel the unease that came off the short man in waves. "Well, it _is_ my job. Who wouldn't want a good case solved and closed?" The transition was smooth. Between Speight giving them the plan and generally leaving them to their own devices for the interrogation, it would so appear that the CIA agent wanted to expedite the case so much he did it at the expense of his superior’s desires. Even stranger was the fact that he was someone who had no care for their suspects' well-being once he was through with them. Like the guy who led to the guy who led them to this location? They had just fished pieces of him out from some lake, and their dear US friend uncouthly joked that he might have "indirectly eaten the lackey". Not exactly signs for a righteous cop. So why? Jensen dared a quick venture into the other agent's mind. Nothing really detectable, a sneak-peek. He brushed past a silhouette. Somehow familiar, yet for the life of him Jensen could not figure out...who?

At the foot of a mountain where they halted Jensen had, perhaps very strangely, thought of the phrase, "and they bade goodbye to their horses". Fortunately the discussion was held a short way above the road, a crevasse overlooking the sole railway, an occasional train blasting by in a deafening whistle. The suspects were just faceless figures, heavy winter coats of similarly dull shades. Their purpose was not to arrest these particular people. CIA wanted the "big fishes". RISC (or CSIS, for that matter) just didn't have the authority.

From the comforts of their car they could see their suspects. Speight had long since given up the idea of microphone surveillance, instead abandoning his headphones in favour of a pair of binoculars and skill in lip-reading. All the while looking on admiringly at Jared who still had his headphones on. Only Jensen knew the volume was probably turned down to silence. Jensen himself was mindlessly staring ahead, unable to contribute. He didn't exactly do well for lip-reading, and long periods without practice meant he was practically useless at this craft. The blonde clicked his tongue in frustration as he reached for his tumbler. Then he saw them. _Her_.

The brunette from Jared's dream. _Genevieve Cortese_ , his mind quickly supplied. 162cm, female, born Danville, California, 25 years old, summer associate in one of the leading firms in MA. She was with a redhead a head taller than herself, just chatting, hiking. Closer and closer to danger, blissfully unaware. Wordlessly, Jensen got out of his car. He saw Jared frown in confusion, then freeze. To warn the ladies or to eliminate the danger, he had to get into firing range of his handgun. Jensen started climbing, and all of a sudden the scenery was less picturesque. Jagged rocks and loose gravel. Sparse vegetation that offered little grip. Jensen thanked his prior experiences for his habit of wearing hunting boots.

When things happened fast, they were instantaneous. Just as Jensen got his gun out of its holster one of the "negotiators" pulled out his own and aimed it straight at the brunette. Jensen barely managed to disarm him with a bullet to the knee. His two accomplices fled. Jensen only downed one of them, a blast to the neck; then the other was out of his range. Jensen cursed, gave chase.

By now the ladies had ran, hysterical, to their car and were desperately trying to start their engine. He had to give them credit for having a lot less screaming and crying involved than expected.

What happened next felt like it was in slow motion. Jensen had the illusion of being a lone audience within a huge cinema, watching some unbelievable spy movie. A car parked at the far end of the clearing charged like an agitated bull towards the ladies' still stationary vehicle. He saw their car rev up, physically slammed the charging car off the road. A train came down at full speed, headlights a semblance to reflection upon the Grim Reaper's scythe.

And then there was a shrill screech that pierced the crisp winter air. Thick clouds of smoke, a mangled wreckage, a burning locomotive. A car with a stalled engine, another on the run.

Jensen calmly walked back up the mountain. Fired into the knee-capped man's face. He knew too much.

x x x

Cold anger burned, threatened to explode. Judging from the Sasquatch's visage, Jared might have preferred that he did. But Jensen did not. Just plopped down tiredly upon his bed, defeated. "Speight got rid of the car. Not much that we can do at the moment though with FBI nose-deep in this shit."

All of a sudden it made sense. Those early morning jogs. The late-night browsing. Jensen roughly scrubbed his face. Somehow, it had been as though he was waiting for this to happen.

"Jensen, I..." Jared started, only to be halted, "Don't. It happens." Because what was there to say now? An apology was too hard to swallow. "Don't follow. I'm going out for a walk."  _Maybe a drink_. Jensen was grateful Jared took his words for it. Tom tended to overthink these sort of things.

Despite being the biggest city up North the place ultimately had a distinct small-town feel. Late night saw bars with crowds staggering in and out, people screaming at unmoved bouncers still as statues by the doors. Jensen plopped himself at the bar, downed a set of flaming shots. That was when he heard something interesting.  Something about "an unfortunate event" and "boss is pissed" and "Ottawa". Jensen ordered a second round and perked up his ears. It was at the third shot that he felt something was wrong. Light-headed and woozy, he spit out a good half of the glass. Roofie. The goddamned bartender whom he ordered from was nowhere to be seen.

Frustrated, Jensen swiped the remaining glasses off the bar top, leading to a few raised eyebrows but alas not too many turned their heads amidst the chaotic atmosphere. Strangely, the few individuals which garnered his attention now turned _their_ attentions upon _him_. Jensen had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"Hey there, bro. Chill." They had approached him, and one of them reached to tug on his arm. Jensen angled his elbow and slammed up. Other hands joined in the form of fists, and Jensen figured he probably needed to crack a few skulls. He smirked in pride as he drove a barstool into someone's abdomen. People just saw his pretty face. They neglected to realise he was more of a brawler than a gunslinger. Jensen had grabbed ahold of another individual's arm and proceeded to stomp down on their knee when a sharp blow to the back of his head sufficiently disoriented him and allowed for someone to grab hold of his neck, choking him into unconsciousness.

When Jensen came to the world was all disoriented and spinning. His temples throbbed, his right knee burned and left eye was starting to swell. Cold air hit his nether regions. Arms held back in vice-like clamps. And he heard someone talking, "...boys and I are looking for some entertainment tonight. Too bad there weren't any single gals at the bar." Fantastic. Judging from the smell they were inside some abandoned warehouse. Dust particles circled the beam of light that streaked through the damaged door.

"Seems like a lot of work to get laid." Jensen grimaced at the scratchiness of his own voice. He mentally catalogued the man's appearance. Tall, dark, all lean muscles and angles. Accent clearly not from the region. Those eyes and brows really resembled Jeff. So much so that Jensen would have thought the guy was his colleague's illegitimate son had he not been so well-informed of Jeff's past, both on records and off. He saw a flash of CSIS HQ, but was shocked back gasping to reality when someone fondled him. "Don't worry, kitten, none of us want to risk AIDS. Besides, where's the fun in an easy prey?" The man spoke in a hushed tone, almost gently, as though coaxing a gullible animal out from the safety of its shelter. All of a sudden there was a beer bottle in his hand, and panic nested itself in Jensen's chest. "Now if I were you I'd relax." He heard someone pipe up, "Gonna give you so much loving" and "lose control like a little girl". And they did. And he did.

Jensen didn't know how he managed to stagger back to their room. Nothing made sense. He blacked out somewhere along the corridor.

Next thing he knew was the comfortable feeling of long fingers carding through his hair. An ice-pack was pressed against his left eye, and his sphincter muscles felt like they were torn beyond repair. Jensen opened his god eye and realised that his head rested upon Jared's lap, staring straight into an unfamiliar ceiling. "CIA safe house." Jared explained, "Dick was scared they'd trace us back to the hotel. Still kept the unofficial one through." Dick? Right, Speight.

Jared helped him sit up, so Jensen now leaned against the sculpted chest. A glass of water was pressed to his lips. Jensen noticed his bad knee was now in a brace.

"Ottawa. CSIS. Head of Siren. Seem to be from CSIS." Jensen chocked out between sips. Jared's expression was one of grim determination, if not downright scary, "Siren was the one who did this to you, wasn't it. Tell me?!" The hand around his shoulder tightened to the point of pain, and Jensen mutely nodded. He wasn't sure if he shed tears, but Jared was rubbing soothing circles on his shoulder, pressed his face into the crook of his neck.

When Jensen next awoke, Jared was nowhere to be found.  Jensen fumbled around before realising his handphone was thankfully in his jeans pocket. He dialled Jared. No response. He dialled Speight, and there were gunshots in the background. "Is Jared with you?" Jensen almost screamed through the speaker. Silence. And he thought he knew why. "Where are you?" Jensen mustered his most commanding tone, "I demand to know. NOW!"

The cobwebs reminded Jensen of villains' lair in fairytales, permeating evil and forebode. He could still hear gunshots. The sheer acrid stink of blood and gunpowder made his eyes water. As Jensen limped into the warehouse, gun at ready, he saw Jared put a bullet into the last guy still standing. Red and white splattered upon grey, like a morbid modern statement. Jensen surveyed the cadavers. Same bunch of guys, though Jeff-eyes was notably missing. He decided to keep mum.

Hazel eyes turned to him, more mastiff than pup. Unyielding, remorseless. Jensen could only stand there, gun pointed at the ground, as Jared approached. Fingers under his chin lifted Jensen's head till they stared straight into one another's soul, "I'd kill for you."


	10. Goodnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been considering asking for a beta. Then again, I'm not a very diligent updater, and sometimes I'd be off this site for months on end...urgh maybe I'll just post the request after I've completed this story.   
> BTW would really appreciate if someone could volunteer for "Rewind"!

"The politics, they disgust me." The brunette complained between munches. She sat cross-legged on the couch, loose-fitting knit top and lounge pants, long hair tied in a casual ponytail, "Be a dear and pass the popcorn won't you, Jay?" Upon the 64-inch screen of Danneel's newly-procured TV the superhero team had just assembled. The studio apartment was a cosy den, most resting surfaces decorated with an array of blankets, pillows and soft toys. Their owner now changed her posture, leaned into the nook of her friend-with-benefit's arm, casually stroking the cockapoo that had excitedly clambered upon her lap. With an indulgent smile Jensen handed her the popcorn bowl, "So, Paul?" He was dressed in a hoodie and Bermudas. Hair tousled, top rumpled, looked like he just partook in some rated activity when all they did was to enjoy a good movie. And popcorns.

"Who else but this misogynistic A-hole?" Danneel grumbled as she popped a kernel into her mouth. The cockapoo had settled and looked like an extremely furry towel upon her lap. "What can I say? I've got imbeciles for teammates and my supervisor's willing to let the entire team sink just because the lack of team camaraderie will apparently spoil his oh-so-perfect track record. Or something. So now I've got to do their paperwork too." Jensen frowned, because to judge them as a team rather than individual performance was unusual, "That's no fine politics. It's just him being an idiot as well. He's new?" The film was climbing to its climax, yet no one was paying attention anymore. "No, he's been with us for quite some time, actually. Always kinda an odd bird though. Who knows how he got his position." Returning Jensen the popcorn bowl, by now almost empty, Danneel hugged her knees. The cockapoo scampered off her lap and comfortably nestled itself in the space between Jensen's bow legs. "I don't suppose you can help me look after Icarus for the next few days?"

Jensen shook his head, and turned his attention back to the TV. The credits were rolling. He tried to precariously balance the bowl atop Icarus' head, and got snapped at for his trouble. The cockapoo sprang up and scuttled to snuggle against Danneel. The heavy curtains at the far end of the apartment were still. A full-sized teddy bear atop Danneel's bed stared with beady black eyes.

"I'm not supposed to divulge this but the gag order doesn't apply to implications so I'm going Transatlantic. A little later than later." By now the credits had ended, so Jensen whipped up the remote to rent another, "Romance or thriller?" The brunette rolled her eyes as she lazily twirled Icarus' fur between her fingers, "Get me a good thriller. I've enough soap for the day." There were voices from the corridor. Footsteps, high-heels. Laughter. Noises. The couch was comfortable and Jensen was sleepy, despite the horror film music in the background. Especially because of said music.

"With Jared?" Danneel asked.

"And Chad." At Jensen's reply Danneel's elegantly-arched brows raised to new heights. "Ah yes, almost forgot all about that teammate of yours. How's his trip to South America?" Jensen just shrugged in resignation at Danneel's knowing smile, said, "Let's see, check in luggage overweight, carry-on overweight and fined, and waiting for shipment these few days." Danneel gave a huff of incredulousness. Jensen nodded in agreement, "I know, guy sometimes gets me wondering how is there so much soccer collectibles in the world." The warm glow from the incandescent bulb refracted through the stained-glass pitcher Danneel had on her dining table, casting rainbow across the cheap wooden surface.

Onscreen the antagonist showed their face. It wasn’t anyone. It was everyone.

By now Icarus cowered behind Danneel, sandwiched between her back and the couch. "Stay for the night?" She asked. Jensen shook his head.

He kissed her farewell as the credits started rolling.

x x x

"They said frequent flights damage the DNA due to constant exposure to cosmic radiation." The ubiquitous double-helix popped up in mind as he lowered the back of his sea for a good nights’ sleep. "We should get treatment like my old man if we do turn out like him due to all these goddamned flying." Chad yammered on beside him, and Jensen hadn't the heart to tell him it should be aneurysm or bullets or in the best case scenario cancer that they needed to worry about, not dementia. "How do you know they won't?" He asked instead. Chad gave him a look that either said _I am flabbergasted by your naivety_ or _I pity thou oblivion_. "Have you _seen_ our employment contract? No, because there is none. _Tsk_. They only look after my old man because I'm of some use to them." Chad fumbled through his pockets, presumably looking for his cigarettes, only to come up empty. Outside the window by Jensen's seat the sky was shades of deep navy and black, vague outlines that could have been either clouds or land, monotonous scenery stretched as far as what little the window allowed them.

Jensen had wanted to argue to the contrary, yet found himself at a lack of evidence.

Their destination was nearer to Glasgow, yet at that hour the only seats available were to Edinburgh. The place was average-sized. Not especially designer or grand, but functional. Somehow reminded Jensen of Normans' stone castles. One look at the customs queue had Jensen pull out his Australian passport. Chad gave a raised eyebrow that indicated, "Wow, really?" Jensen just stared resolutely at the winding EU queue as he silently mouthed back, "Unless you want the South African one. Only other with same name."

The ebullient greeting by the customs officer gave Jensen his first taste of Scottish hospitality, a fiery red to the solemn grey that is London. In the arrival hall Jared (who took an earlier flight because _seats_ ) was easy to spot. An unusually large mound attempting to squeeze into a row of seats. Jensen was about to call out to him to discuss the merits of train versus bus when Chad's phone buzzed. A few minutes spent reading the text and Jensen headed to where Jared was taking a nap, patting the latter on him thigh, "Get up, our local contact's coming to fetch us. ETA 15 minutes."

Bec, or so she introduced herself, was pretty in a way that had Chad catcall and Jensen blush. Shapely figure in hugging dress and tights, headful of brown curls bouncing at the shoulders. She had the classic feminine features of full cheeks and small jaws, yet handsomeness exemplified in the form of angled brows and a strong nose. A pity her unsmiling face was set to a matronly look. And the condescendence in those big green eyes so like Jensen’s own had Jensen’s brain click into recognition and dispatched the blush as quickly as it came.

"How kind of you to come all these way," Chad began. Bec gave no acknowledgement, merely motioned for them to follow as she strode away, stilettos clicking with every step upon the polished floor. Only when their Aston Martin--of course it had to be an Aston Martin--pulled out of the parking lot did Jensen finally catch Bec's smirk in the rearview mirror. The downpour had just receded into a drizzle, water droplets upon the window panes distorted the silhouettes and light rays radiating from a centre in irregular wavy lines. "I'm only doing this favour because three extremely attractive guys travelling together?" Bec gave a slight shake of head, "That's the exact antonym of subtle." Her voice matched their impression of her person to a T. Haughty with a twist of playfulness.

Their Aston Martin glided down the highway, darkened branches sticking out like gnarled limbs, green and white signboards appeared and disappeared in the headlights. And the eerie green glow that was a deer staring into the headlights signalled they were probably somewhere near their rustic destination.

The car ascended an uneven slope. When they finally reached their dropoff location the scene had Chad stare till his eyes looked about to pop. There was no hotel, no inn, not even an abandoned house of sorts. Instead in the middle of nowhere was a coach.

"My apologies on behalf of the organization," started Bec, sounding not the least bit apologetic, "The initial arrangement was for you to be housed in a country cottage nearby. But it was blown up yesterday. And well, holiday season, you see. Coach is fully stocked. I'll see you tomorrow then." The taillight of the Aston Martin disappeared into the trees before any of them could think of an appropriate comeback.

"I swear, bitch just wants to see us suffer. I won't be surprised if she's the one who bombed the place." Chad grumbled as he hauled his rucksack up the steps. In the dark the black exterior of the bus melded perfectly into the landscape. Jensen shrugged. Could have been worse. At least they weren't camping beneath the stars.

Milk, cheese, bacon, sausage, onion, salt, pepper...all he needed was a packet of macaroni or pasta. Now that they had some lights on it felt less like twelve midnight. The vehicle looked rather well-used, but hints of its past grandeur revealed themselves in the details, be they the still very solid polished woodworks, or the granite-like flooring and countertops, or the smell of well-used leather on the prime-looking seats. Six bunk beds, all made (with hopefully fresh linen). A bit of an excess, Jensen might say, had there been more than one bathroom.

As it was Jensen could hear his other teammates argue about first dibs to said facility. He located some elbow macaroni, and a fine bottle of sherry as bonus. "Jeff really must be quite desperate, sending the three of us like this." Jensen contemplated as he set the macaroni to boil, and the sherry upon the dining table. This mission meant Jared would have to play a key role in monitoring their use of "capabilities". Without prior experience. Without backup. Not a very Jeff-like arrangement. Speaking of the puppy, Jensen was worried. Guy had been _too_ quiet for someone with a perpetually large presence, slept most of their way here. Then again, he'd came straight from a mission with Jeff. In Vancouver. Jensen knew how taxing it could get when Pellegrino was involved, if Tom's experience was anything to go by.

There was a soft shuffle of socked feet on flooring that would have been inaudible to untrained ears. But Jensen could sense the person behind him. He knew there were only the three of them, which was the sole reason he did not hurl the boiling pot over his shoulder when hands encircled his waist the next moment. _Looks like Chad won_.

Scalding breath sprayed upon his earlobe, "Missed you. Hope it wasn't too much of a mess to clean up." Jared was referring to their prior mission in Alaska. He had first jeopardized the mission by trying to save his ex-girlfriend. And again by going full berserker on some people who'd hurt Jensen. That got the attention of FBI alright, so Jared had to be benched and Jeff called in. In summary, the mission was a huge clusterfuck. RISC had to pull out early, CIA got a lot less information than they'd hoped for, the mission report was a nightmare. And it was only through the shrewd manoeuvres of Richard from CIA that a certain 6'4, puppy-eyed RISC agent is not currently wanted by Interpol.

As Jensen strained water from the pot, hot steam rose like geyser.

Jensen leaned back, head rested upon those broad shoulders as he emptied the carton of milk, whispered a "thank you". Because a good half of what Jared did was for him. He closed his emeralds as Jared leaned in for a quick peck to the lashes, subsequently swatting away the hand that wandered to his zipper and reached for the chopped ingredients.

Besides, Jared had to suffer their handler as a price for his actions. Naturally Pellegrino was pissed when he got the report from CIA. The three of them were called into his office individually. Jensen could remember, clear as yesterday, the white walls, devoid of any frames. Desk of OCD-level tidiness, the gloomy sky that drizzled freezing droplets. He shuddered at the memory of that glare Pellegrino directed at himself, and felt the hand on his hips move to wrap themselves around his shoulder.

A pinch of salt and pepper.

In the end, Jeff had to agree to himself and Jared undergoing a series of medical examinations far beyond that of regular protocol, _and_ them working closely with Pellegrino on one of the latter's cold cases. That seemed to have sufficiently appeased Pellegrino for him to agree to this mission. Speaking of which, "I guess Jeff is more deserving of your apology." Jensen adjusted the heat as he laconically added, "He's technically the one who suffered the most. After all, he's the one who accompanied you through the report and Pellegrino." To this Jared seemed hesitant to voice an agreement, "Actually Mark seemed alright. The test was a little weird, but they were focused on brainwaves. Nothing invasive. And Mark, I won't say he's a joy to work with but he is professional. And I do admire his dedication to his cases." That had Jensen pause in his shredding of cheese, though he conceded, "Well I can't say anything to this. All that I've ever heard about Pellegrino was from Tom. And it's been a few years."

All of a sudden silence washed over the whole kitchen. It was one of those moments wherein mysteriously everyone stopped speaking and even the pin refused to drop. "Jensen." He heard Jared, voice low and soothing. The long pause which, knowing Jared, would lead to a topic that he was highly uncomfortable with, "What caused your fallout with Tom?"

"What do you mean what caused it?" Jensen said blandly, although he already had an inkling as to what was Jared asking. Maybe it was a defence mechanism to delay the conversation, even if only for a second or two. "What caused you to attack Tom? You were in a relationship. And a close one to boot." Jared had that _look_ on his face. Jensen could feel those eyes inspecting him as though he was the helpless victim pushed too far. Glass figurine pressured beyond shattering point. Irritation built in is gut. He tried to squirm out of the embrace, but Jared used size to his advantage and hugged Jensen even tighter, chin digging into Jensen's shoulder. So Jensen lashed out, "And how well do you truly know me, huh? Who knows, I may burst your brain, burst a round into your sleeping body this very night."

"Well enough to know you'd never do that, even to someone you'd only care as a teammate. Well enough to know that you'd only hurt yourself, even if Tom had cheated on you." Jared retorted hotly, palm slamming into the nearest surface. And Jensen could feel his quickened heartbeat, faint as it was behind the wall of muscles and bones. _One, two, three, four..._ the agitated breathes that tickled his collarbone.

Jensen turned off the heat, although he didn't bother with the lid. Looking intently at the pot of mac and cheese as though it may impart him with some divine wisdom, Jensen finally spoke, "Not to that extent, not Tom. You remember that day, I was tryin' to get into y'head? I _could_ push too hard." Jared didn't press any further, though Jensen could feel his ribs expand in inhalation. They just stood there in silence. Cold light, mahogany, granite grey. The air a rich aroma of spicy cream, sprinkled with lingering traces of stale airplane air and smoky cologne. The sound of shower stopped, and the wall of warmth moved away.  

"Lauren Cohan, recognize the name?" The staleness of air travel washed away by hot shower and a chase of sherry, Jensen said that while cross-legged on one of the top bunks, comfortable in a pair of loose sweatpants, all sleek muscles and wide expanses of freckled skin. A bowl of half eaten mac and cheese sat atop a fold-down bed-side shelf. The blonde leaned over the side of the boxed-in design as Chad passed over his glass--long glass, it was either that or the mug.

Chad had an "ahh" expression on his face, while Jared parked himself directly underneath Jensen since the other bunk was located at an inconvenient angle. Jensen didn't have to wait long. Sasquatch caught on, "The shrewd one, hmm? I remember JDM telling me she had something to do with Siren. Warned me not to be smitten by her because that was just so easy and he had probably never looked through my records. Well his exact words were 'she probably had someone in mind already'. At gunpoint. And also not to maim her because MI6."

"Hell yeah." Chad agreed, in the process nearly knocking his now-empty bowl off his bed. A tortilla chip fell out of the bag as he ripped it open with excessive force. "Boss met her once, before I joined. Apparently she's really into the Adonis type, which our Je...pretty-boy here epitomizes." Chad abruptly changed references as he saw Jensen reach for something. "And you, don't look at me as though I'm some illiterate street ruffian!" He protested at Jared's likely surprised countenance.

Well that aspect of Cohan certainly had not changed over the years. Jensen was unsure if either of his teammates noticed. They probably did, for some of the signs she displayed were less than subtle. A hand on the thigh, a wink of the eye. Then again, it was all light-hearted, nothing to transgressive, considering. "So what of the Siren part?" Jared asked just as Jensen leapt from his bunk, landing in a crouch on the pads of his feet, now-empty bowl clutched like a football. He stood up, and those Barbie-eyes held a glass-like quality as they reflected the bright lights overhead; long lashes several shades lighter than usual too, as though glowing like the moon.

"She's smart, I'd give her that. If MI6 can't dig up worthwhile dirt on her, what are our chances?" Jensen turned towards the kitchen area, bare feet silent on the tepid stone floor. "Ah, you mean what Mish-Mish managed to dig up." Chad teased and Jensen had to roll his eyes. Alcohol, stress and Chad equates to a range roughly between high school and kindergarten, with twice the bore and zero official holidays. "It's Misha!" He shouted back, and openly smirked at the string of curses and something along the lines of "fuck the oil crisis and budget issues" as Chad tried to rise and follow him. "And Jared, I'd get some sleep if I were you. Cohan's coming at 6 a.m."

With lights out the coach completely melted into the night. From his angle Jensen could scarcely see anything outside the windows. Night seemed to have sneaked in, enveloping everything in a swirl of dark matter. The noise from the dishwasher sounded distant, a low hum and swishing liquid that lulled Jensen to sleep.

The sound of his morning alarm woke them up, its blare echoed in the confined space, as though physically shaking them. Jensen distantly heard someone curse, muffled, as though someone stuffed cotton-candy into his ears, leaving a sickly-sweet residual taste in his mouth. Jensen groggily clambered down from his bunk, and was greeted by the sight of Jared dazedly rubbing his eyes, hair mussed up like a puppy that just shook itself dry. The opposite bunks looked empty, though on the bottom bed the linen was haphazardly thrown aside. Then there was a loud bang from the front door swinging shut.

Chad came back just as Jensen exited the bathroom--damned Jared and his illegally long legs for calling first dibs. The shortest man was shivering from the wintry morning chill in nothing more than boxers and a loose hoodie, eyes red-rimmed and a stray drool that clung to the side of his mouth. Jensen wordlessly tossed Chad his mouthwash, a silent gratitude to the other for not relieving his stomach's contents inside the vehicle. Jensen groggily nodded in appreciation as Jared handed him a piping hot mug of coffee and inhaled deeply. He took a tentative sip, then scrunched his nose in disgust as his taste buds confirmed it as the cheapskate instant variety. _It's the UK for goodness sake! And they couldn't afford a coffee machine?!_

By the time Chad exited the bathroom Jensen was already biting into his cold ham-and-cheese sandwich. The contents of his mug too was transformed into an iced coffee. Chad shuddered. Jared meanwhile had somehow found a sandwich press and how had one between the panels. Chad tried to steal his coffee, only to have it lifted beyond his reach. Did get the food though. The whole scene just played out like a very cosy breakfast, buddies hanging out on a road trip, except that everyone was busy on their phone, bloodshot eyes scrolling through mission emails.

Cohan sneaked up on them just as Chad--still in his boxers--was digging through his rucksack for a decent pair of pants. "Sneaked up", thanks to the fact that the Aston Martin barely made any noise nearing their coach. And its owner had keys to this place.

"Gosh, lady, try knocking next time!" Chad screeched as he stood from bending over his luggage, briefs and pants in hand only to see a very bored looking female agent in the middle of the room. His face turned an interesting shade of mulberry as he dashed towards the bunk section.

Cohan was dressed classy as always in a peach pea coat and black tights that ended in high heels. No three-inch but also no surprise that she was not going to explore the heath with them. After all, it was either CSIS or CIA asking for favour from MI6 this time round. Cohan pulled out a tablet from her purse. On it displayed the map of their destination for the day. By now Chad had put on his convertible pants and woollen top, and rejoined them at the table. Cohan pointed at a few areas on the screen, "We have cars here, in case you end up past office hours." Another tap, and the plate numbers showed up, "Just break in. I'd take it as part of CSIS basic training. I trust you'll get the email soon." She said the last part offhandedly, extremely confident in the area's telecommunications system. Outside the coach it was still very much the night. Jensen could barely make out the shadows of branches trembling.

"Here's where our intelligence said you suspects are likely to meet. Here's where I'll drop you." He heard Cohan continue, "Take your sweet time. You either end soon or they're well, late." Cat-like eyes swept across the trio, and Cohan expressively lifted an eyebrow, "I'll wait for two hours. You might want to consider repacking." They had dressed rather similarly for tops, woollen base layer and fresh-out-of-lab softshell jackets, only difference being Jensen's was a half-zip high collar and Jared's a turtleneck. For bottom Chad wore convertibles and Timberland. Jared had on similar high-ankle hiking boots and nylon soft-shell pants, whereas Jensen just had on a pair of cargo pants and his hunting boots. The backpacks looked like they held water and nothing else. "Nah, we'll go light." Chad waved her off, and Jensen ventured Cohan probably gave a "suit yourself" with her back to them as she led the way to her car.

Their destination was a lot nearer than anticipated. It certainly felt more ominous. The lights of dawn had barely managed to peak through as they exited the car. The chilly winds cut against cheekbones as they started on the half-frozen muddy terrain. Vegetation had yet to wilt, but were in the process of dying. Just wet, sloppy, cold and all-around disgusting. As they progressed deeper into the dale they got used to the sound of mud being squished underfoot. The grasses got taller, almost reaching Chad's chest. Then Jared slipped calf-deep into a puddle and had to endure his fellow agents' look of repugnance as they pulled him out. But they considered it a victory said ankle was under no more serious predicament than merely being cold and muddy.

By the time they got to slightly higher elevation they were finally able to find vantage for their supposed surveillance area. All three of them were panting, darkened streaks on their clothes where wetness of the vegetation managed to get through the waterproofing. Jensen took a long draught from his hydration bladder, feeling the icy liquid glide down his oesophagus. Beside him Jared's face was slightly less flushed, but had bits of grass and other dubious material sticking out from his hair. Chad was...well, Chad. He fished out what looked suspiciously like a whiskey flask from his jacket and took a swish. It wasn’t the best view from here, but it was enough to see that there wasn't a trace of human activity. Jensen closed his eyes, focused on "scanning" the surroundings for brain activities. Nothing, save for the harried evasion of his probe by his colleagues. There was probably an angry shout of "Jensen!" somewhere in there but that too was irrelevant. "Looks like they chose later." He finally opened those emeralds and said. Chad also mumbled something to that effect.

By now the pale sun had casted a ghostly glow upon the valley. Dim, cold, each breath raising the hair in their nostrils, drying the membrane lining their windpipe until finally inviting chill into their lungs. The sky was low, as though one may touch it if only one stretched a little harder. As the dimness gave way to light their breaths became more visible. They tried to go higher in search of better vantage points, and maybe somewhere to plant a camera or two. The slurry of mud and slush proved difficult to navigate, or as Jensen would put it, "I'd fucking rather climb breakwaters and cliffs" as it started drizzling on and off. By lunch they had taken all the tourist-worthy photos there were to be taken, and maybe planted a few cameras in the process. They even had the time to make a small fire and heat up a few cans of food, although they’d made sure to pack no baked beans, courtesy of Jared.

They may have encountered a moose while looking for a suitable stakeout den. A solitary Eurasian Elk, to be precise. Chad was the one to "find" it; or rather, he almost walked straight into it. The surprise had Chad down on his rear, while the beast just gave him an unimpressed look before turning back to graze. Chad's accompanying yelp was priceless. Between banging on the trees (Jared claimed he was checking to make sure there wasn't another moose) and rolling on the ground in laughter Jensen helpfully reminded that Chad was fortunate mating season had long since came to pass. Chad made it known the comment was of no help.

They'd split up. Somehow between the tall grass and shrubbery they managed to find enough space to hide even Jared. Now as the mud rendered the camouflage on their softshell jackets useless, Jensen could feel warmth disperse as the last lights did. From his position crouched near the treelines, Jensen glanced at the gadget in his hand. New product of CSIS, still in testing stage. It was black, scarcely bigger than a dental floss container. Eight square buttons with borders that would emit a dim light should any of the corresponding motion sensors they'd installed be activated. Jensen was pondering the likelihood of wild animals when a voice entered his head, "Well, either way that's higher quality assurance than IMF*!" Jared. Jensen was proud of how much the kid had grown. Boy was catching up on Jeff. Unlike how he "saw" images of others conjured in their minds, or how others could "hear" thoughts, with a well-trained compatible they just _knew_ what thoughts the other party projected at themselves. No doubts, no miscommunications. He knew Jared would be able to "hear" just as clearly from him or Chad should they wish to project thoughts to the Jared. It was fascinating how Comprehensives such as Jared and Jeff could accomplish this with virtually anyone of their kind, a feat sorely lacking between Chad and Jensen.

There was little else to do besides waiting. Jensen could feel the streaks of mud on his face dry out (or was it freeze), chunks falling off as his facial muscles moved. _Way to get a mud mask_. The gloves that he chose for their dexterity now proved insufficient in their thickness, though the remainder of his attire were warm enough to stave off the goosebumps.

The corner of his mind caught on something errant, and it was this time that one of the lights on his device came to life. He pressed the button to extinguish it, simultaneously projecting to Jared, "Sector three. Chad may want to change his position. Think I need to move?" The response was immediate, "Stay where you are. I'm rooted." Meanwhile Jensen adjusted his spectacles to infrared mode. Three figures sprang out of the darkness. Jensen focused his mind, and saw things through their eyes. Two rifles, three pistols. All were armed. Dressed for the weather too, in raincoats and wellingtons. Someone even rode a horse. Jensen's fingers danced atop the gun holster as he maintained tight "watch". He could sense Jared's anxiety, and only hoped that his own reputation as the most trigger-happy one offered some assurance.

They were exchanging documents. Identity documents. Jensen remembered what he could. Facial features, names, passport numbers. They waited a good while, and it was not until Jensen felt numbness in his extremities did the sound of squished mud and crunching ice signal their suspects' departure. It was only when his mind told him the coast was clear did Jensen fish out his phone. Forcing numb fingers over keys, he typed what he saw and hit Send. Jared and Chad would do the same. Their job was done and it was now up to Jeff (or Richard) to come up with a feasible report and contact the British customs. He pushed himself from the prone position, and found his teammates' faces similarly illuminated by handphone screens.

"That...was way too easy." Jared commented in disbelief as they trekked towards the nearest car. Chad just couldn't get through to Cohan. There were no signs of nosebleed. "Who knows? Not every mission draws blood. Pity you get paired with Chad so often." Jensen quipped, all in good fun and just knowing Chad would come up with some hilarious refute. Chad did not disappoint, and Jared thankfully completed his extraordinarily long report before they reached the promised vehicle. It was an SUV, probably Land Rover but who knows? They were tired, and it was dark.

A thin flake of frost fell to the ground, light as snow, as Jensen shrugged off his softshell and dumped it in a heap within the trunk. Cohan would probably complain about the mud but who cares?

The GPS guided them back to the coach.

Chad emitted a happy noise as he made haste to claim the sole shower. Jared and Jensen were removing their mud-encrusted boots when a very unmanly scream of "Cold!" came from the bathroom. Not unexpectedly, a familiar figure slid in from behind the door. Cohan wrinkled her nose in disdain at their dishevelled appearances, "Make yourselves presentable. Hotel's ready."

x x x

"Nice, a suite. Makes me almost forgive her." Was Chad's only comment before he commissioned the largest bedroom for himself. By "making yourselves presentable", Cohan essentially meant for them to have a change of shoes and pants, dumping the mud-stained garb in what she likened to biohazard bags.

The room was an extension of the extravagant lobby, tastefully decked out in light beige, glossy black and a touch of gold. To numb toes and sore muscles, even the carpets seemed invitingly soft and refreshingly clean.

It was somehow therapeutic, watching the brown mud mix with white suds as they swirled down the drain. As the steaming rain shower returned feelings to fingers and toes, and washed the stickiness away from skin. He was further lulled towards sleep as he slid into the lightly scented Jacuzzi bath, the long hike and arduous stakeout but a mere memory.

As he cocooned himself in the cloudlike sheets Jensen thought he heard some commotion he couldn't quite place. Odd in itself. Since waking up in actual heaven was not on Jensen's agenda (plus he would most likely end up on the other side anyway), he grabbed his shotgun and crept out. The lights in the common area were as they had left them. As Jensen's mind cleared itself from the drowsy haze he realised what was so weird about the commotion. Because he just _knew_ there were some unrest. _Jared_.

Jensen moved to determine what pick to use on Jared's door, only to realise it was unlocked. As he pushed in the salinity of tears assaulted his nostrils. Jared was not thrashing about, but instead sprawled out on the King, half of the duvet on the floor. As he got closer Jensen could see the tears and snot that glistened his face. Jensen put a hand on the corded shoulder muscles, readied himself for any punches Jared might throw. Instead Jared just cracked open one groggy eye. Jensen huffed, "Dude, y'gonna get y'self killed one day, letting y'guard down like that."

"Knew t'was y'." Jared mumbled half-heartedly. Jensen kicked his shotgun under the bed and sat down on the edge, only to find himself fall backwards as Jared latched on like a giant octopus, rubbing his tears and god-knows-what onto Jensen's singlet. "So you still miss your...old life?" Jensen finished rather lamely. Granted it was the perfect opportunity for the "tell me more about Genevieve Cortese" sort of conversation. But Jensen was far from comfortable talking about Tom. Jared spoke about Genevieve anyway, "Gen. She was my girlfriend. Is. Technically we never broke up."

"You still love her." Jensen rubbed soothing circles on Jared's shoulder as he cradled the latter's head against his chest. There was no rivalry, only a sense of envy. For Gen was _the one_ that Jared chose out of the millions, and absence only made the heart grown fonder. Him? He was likely a placeholder, a meagre salve to a desperate wound. A choice where there was none.

"Deeply. I fell for her smile the first day of school. The more I knew her, the harder I fell. Y'know, what made it hardest was that I never got to say goodbye." Jared's hand was on his belly, absently stroking a patch of bared skin. Jensen drew a shuddering breathe as his fingers massaged Jared's scalp, "I'm not Genevieve."

"Neither am I Tom. Nor Danneel." The stroking of his tummy stopped as Jared shifted, and now he laid, upper torso cushioned upon Jensen's. He lifted his head, and even with the veil of night, hazel eyes met emerald, "Stay for the night."

Jensen found himself rather short of breathe**, "Or whatever time that we have. Y'know I will." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve no idea the nuances of British wilderness (in fact, most temperate landscapes in general). My inspirations came from limited interactions with friends from that region and the internet. So please do correct me on any inaccuracies.
> 
> *IMF, as in the fictional Impossible Mission Force, not the real-life International Monetary Fund.  
> **Picture season 4 or 5 Sam. Now imagine his full weight on your chest. Nuff said.


	11. Winter

It was as relieving as it was irritating, Chad's teasing whistle as Jensen exited the room after him. The other agent was in a positively chirpy mood. Dressed in loose linen pants and a loud Hawaiian shirt and a seating posture which may only be described as plebeian, feet at all the wrong places and somehow taking up the entire length of the rather sizeable couch. One hand behind the back of his head while his other paw, glistened in oil, held onto a turkey drumstick. By the front of the couch laid an empty beer bottle, toppled. Right next to it a meal trolley, a half-eaten turkey atop.

"Woah, sasquatch, you feeling alright there?" Chad let out between bites. Jared gave him a bewildered look, and now Chad waved his mangled drumstick like a baton, "I mean, you, sleeping beauty there. Slept together, nothing happened." Jared shot Chad a disbelieving look this time because _how could Chad know?_ And also because it was not like Chad was _capable_ of creeping past his mental defences.

The carpet was soft and warm beneath his feet, the tufts tickling between his toes, made Jared wriggle them unconsciously. The aroma of roasted turkey filled the air, the full menu made Jared realize it was almost noon. Chad now toyed with his food, tearing string-like strips with his teeth, nibbling lackadaisically while turning the drumstick, examining it as though it were as piece of art. “Dude, how much more obvious could you get? Don’t you guys realize? Jenny there always walks funny afterwards. Well, moreso than he usually does, anyway.” Chad was surprisingly not fearful of Jensen reaching for his weapon this time. “And while you’re at it, get me another beer, won’t you?”

Jensen pointedly ignored Chad and approached the turkey, wrestling a wing for himself. Outside the window the moors stretched in endless green, its deep shades a remarkable contrast to the golden rays of this remarkably mild day. Jared turned from the bay windows just in time to see Jensen thump Chad over the head with a beer bottle before handing the bohemian agent said bottle. It was all sunshine and roses (on second thought, maybe thistles instead of roses), a blissful midday to fritter away. And then their phones rang. Simultaneously.

Jensen was the first to check. Perched on the back of the sofa, presumably over Chad’s prone form, he’d made short work of the turkey wing. Those fingers glanced feather-light across the back of the sofa. Jared could just about imagine the caress. The slight chill of those digits. The barely-there touch. Jared was distracted, eyes trained upon those fingers until a sharp jab that was Chad’s elbow in his ribcage, “Cease your wet dreams, nerd, Jensen just said we don’t have to worry about the air tickets since boss is coming.” This said, Chad stretched himself before the sofa, “Which means, anyone up for a late night out?”

Turned out it wasn’t much of a night. Don’t get it wrong, the bars were open alright, and the crowds were high but still a controllable rowdiness. So suitable environment, check. Amicable company, eh…check. Teammate still retain all their faculties? Might need to uncheck that. “This is cruel. _Cruel_.” Chad bemoaned as he nursed a split lip (and bruised ego) on the sofa of their suite. A few bottles of hard liquor stood empty on the dining table, while Jared knocked back another shot. Probably tequila, by the way its punch so neatly drowned out Chad’s complaints.

Everything started out innocuously enough, just as how life always goes. The techno lights had a strange way of messing with one’s inhibitions. Of course there were some flirting involved. Jensen’s incredible prettiness only seemed to aid in his “conquests”. He was in an amicable conversation with some unnamed red-head over a glass of iced tea. Too amicable, to the point where Jared was tempted to walk up. That was when things took a turn for the dramatic. The redhead appeared to have seen something that caused her to abandon Jensen. She made a beeline for Jared, but Jared was certain he never knew her. Then he remembered Chad. So of course their teammate just _had_ to live up to his Casanova reputation. And of course Chad was most drunk out of the three of them. Between the screams and shoves the positions got a little compromising. And that was when the boyfriend chose to arrive.

“Goddamnit I should’ve just spent some money and gotten myself a hooker instead. Saves so much trouble, what with scorned lovers and shit.” Chad was mumbling rather incoherently as he knocked back another shot, only to find the quantity unsatisfying and turned straight to the bottle.

Boyfriend was like a boxer, if that was a legitimate description of first impressions. Though he fought more like a gladiator, to-the-death and more than a little cunning. Unfortunately he then chose to make a pass at Jensen. In his inebriate mind Jared couldn’t recall the exact words, only that it infuriated him more than seeing Jensen with the redhead. Except that before Jared could make a move Jensen was on the guy like a mad dog. Naturally the bouncers got involved and all five of them were thrown onto the chilly streets, where the night was still young and crowds came and went, some drunk, some sombre and not very fun. But all were ridiculously well-dressed, somehow. Made them stand out like sore thumbs in their plaids, even with jackets. The street lamps were dated, and between the people, the cobble-stone pavements and the hints of a very London mist, it felt like they were on the set of some period piece. The unfamiliar accents a strong choir in Jared’s buzzed mind. Fearing brush-ins with Scotland Yard, him and Jensen had to drag Chad’s very drunken arse back to the hotel, where he proceeded to drink some more.

By the time JDM arrived Jared was working off the tail end of his hangover, involving a few bags of savoury snacks and bottles of sports drinks he’d only just got acquainted to. Jensen was on the bed, in a horror film binge and Chad was, well, out. He came back just as JDM made himself comfortable on the couch, complete with a bottle of beer. And Chad was quite a sight to behold as he walked past the front door, hair mussed, a Cheshire grin on scabbed lips, and sweet scent of cheap perfume. Jensen just exited his room, all groggy-eyed and dancing steps. Jared caught his wistful glance towards Chad. A nano-second, so brief even JDM would have missed it. Jensen turned and locked eyes with Jared. A subtle scan in Chad’s direction, a change of light in Jensen’s iris, and Jared knew Jensen suspected something was unusually wrong with their friend.

JDM on the other hand looked less than perturbed. He just examined Chad as though the latter was just being Chad, which Jared found uncharacteristic since it was not like JDM to not know. Their leader was always online with everyone on the team. Meanwhile Chad found himself a place on the sofa to plop down and rested his head against the ledge, groaning in misery. “Whassup, boss? Doesn’t HQ ever get the memo? Whole team on mission does not equal vacation.” He laid an arm over his eyes, other limbs all over the place. Jensen too left Jared’s proximity and parked himself upon the other couch in the room, leaving Jared a choice between the coffee table and the floor. Jared intended to try his luck with Jensen’s lap, but one warning twirl of a pistol had him obediently on the solid wooden table, figurative puppy ears drooping.

Absent the creaks of ancient facilities and “next door noises” of lesser abodes, it was as silent indoors as it was out. The laptop came out. The buildings upon the screen distinct in their architecture, though what truly gave Jared a clue was the road signs. “Moscow?”

JDM shook his head, “Saint Petersburg.” Which explained why Jared mistook one city for the other, given where inspiration for both cities’ iconic cathedrals came from. A second glance at the innocuous streets on the screen made Jared’s mouth go dry a little. “I suppose expecting any local contacts is too much to ask for?” Chad asked as he stifled a yawn. Jared wrinkled his nose and silently sympathized with JDM. He could smell the cheap perfume and digested alcohol even from this distance, and could only imagine the assault laid upon JDM’s nose. JDM’s “humph” said it all, and then some, “Historically, KGB never had a good relationship with us.”

“Visa?” Jensen questioned, “It’d been awhile since we needed that thing.” Now that was a first, and it piqued Jared’s interest. JDM dug into his luggage, and from undetermined depths pulled out an envelope. Simple, black and no doubt something high-tech. The air of anticipation congealed. “Some buffoon at the HQ messed up.” JDM growled as he emptied the contents. A rainbow of passports spilled out. “Sent all four of our Canadian ones in together. Naturally we can’t use those anymore.” And Jared figured out how it worked. The visas were authentic. The books, not so much.

Next moment and Jared had two books in his face. He’d recognized the EU insignia on one when Chad squealed, “The hell?! Do I even look remotely Asian?” “If you can’t manage Chinese, go Afrikaans.” JDM barely battered an eyelid as he deadpanned, “And Padalecki, brush up on your Polish.” Oh and did Jared mention he didn’t speak any in the first place?

It was like one of those brainstorming sessions for school assignments, except it involved a lot more guns and a lot less books. Alcohol consumption and Google, on the other hand, were quintessential.

Or maybe a field briefing, minus flying bullets overhead. They discussed routes, strategies, accommodations. Under the orange glow of the lavish chandelier, they turned to their most initial partnerships. JDM and Jensen would go on one flight, Jared and Chad on another. Jared made a mental note to ask Dick—Speight Jr.—if he would know what was so extra suspicious about Russia recently. But then Jensen just upped and left. Jared followed him out. Here in the countryside few lamps and lonely lights sprinkled the landscape beyond hotel premises. He arrived just in time to witness Jensen light a cigarette. The Optic took a single puff. Then the hand lowered. The ember glowed, a lonely firefly. Jensen seemed intent to let it burn out.

It was surprisingly Jensen who cracked the silence, “Poland, huh?” “Yeah, looks like they do have people who do research, after all.” Tension slipped off his shoulders as Jared took a step forward. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, just taking in the view, “So, Hebrew?” Jensen was supposed to have had South African like Chad, but for some reason his application got delayed, and had to switch over to Israeli and EU. Jensen finally took a drag, a shallow breath, “I’ll manage. Not the first time.” He shot Jared a wry smile, “Study group?”

Jared shrugged. Study groups are great, but he could manage on his own too. They said curiosity killed the cat, but it also brought Jared insurmountable success in terms of academia. And now Jared was curious about something, “JD doesn’t seem too fond of the idea that you’re to take Israel.” “Well, they couldn’t get a visa on time, so figured they’d just grab a visa-exempt country.” It was something they all knew, since JDM said it mere minutes ago. Jensen was skirting the question. Jared shot him what Genevieve used to dub the “disappointed puppy look”, a slight frown with downturned corners of the mouth and droop in the shoulders, and dragged out pronunciation of Jensen’s name.

Jared could get his answer from a variety of sources should he choose to. Could have crept into Chad’s or JDM’s mind, could have asked/ persuaded/ coerced people from either CSIS or Mounties. Would have had enough information to piece together a recognizable jigsaw. Jensen knew that all too well, and he sighed, “It’s one of the last missions with Tom. He was getting tired of me. It was a routine mission. I was to pose as his victim and Tom was the one infiltrating. I thought he would remain professional, or maybe just because the alternative hurts too much to contemplate. But he really tried to rid himself of me.” Jared clenched his jaws. Even as he knew the late agent probably got what was coming for him, it did little to quell his desire of resurrecting the man just to rip him to shreds, snap his bones one at a time, before smashing the skull into an unrecognizable mess.

“I wanted to hate him, but there were so many memories. When I first got to Canada, all lost, volatile and a nervous mess. He was like a life-raft, an anchor. I refuse to believe Tom’s guidance, all that we shared. That it was just a scheme of some sort.” The cigarette was almost at its end. Jensen let it go, and Jared watched the bud of red dim through its free-fall to the ground. Jared knew what Jensen was talking about, the aimlessness that accompanied this recruitment. He badly wanted to reassure Jensen. That Tom loved him, that some of the memories at least were genuine, even if the feelings were eventually lost…but wouldn’t that imply that he himself was just like Tom? Would be just like him?

And does it even matter now?

The wind brought a waft of moorland air. Of wet grass, mud and general dampness of the evening. Refreshing but also strangely heavy in his lungs. “Jeff still doesn’t seem to trust me.” Jared mumbled, slipped his hands into his pockets. _Was it because of Tom? Id it because I’m more powerful than him?_

Jensen extinguished the dying bud with his foot. He sighed, not of irritation nor anger, just bone-deep weariness, “Jeff won’t be here today, if he trusts so easily.” They had three days, which Jared knew would be cutting it close had they been any less than indispensable. As it was, he was trying his damnest to understand the basics of a Mother Tongue he never knew. So Jared whipped out his Kindle, Jensen opened up his app. And somewhere in the middle Chad joined them. Granted, JDM explained that they would have remote support, but they would have to at least appear convincing.

Jared hummed to his iPod (loathe as he might of the brand, he’d say those were brilliant) as the blood vessels at his temple throbbed to the beat. Why couldn’t they satisfy themselves with the regular 26 alphabets? And the accents were just plain confusing. Language was not his forte. The weird squiggles Jensen was scribbling down hurt his eyes as he reached for his take-out coffee, only to find the cup empty. Jensen looked like he had had enough too, and ripped off his spectacles in a flourish, tiredly rubbing his eyes. Jared removed his earphones. “So which country did JD go with?” He asked, playing with the cap rim of his coffee cup.

“UAE. Not sure which country’s the backup.” Chad looked as though he’d prefer to stuff his entire cup down his oesophagus in an attempt to avoid Chinese—or Cantonese, to be precise.

The cap flew off and rolled upon the floor. A few residual droplets landed on Jared’s very light pink dress-shirt, at which point he yelped. In a _manly_ manner, though. Jensen just rolled his eyes and handed Jared the box of tissue. Chad continued, now that he saw an opportunity for a break, “So what happened with Pellegrino? Didn’t seem very pleasant. “

“Perplexing.” By now the room was considered old scenery. They got used to the brightness of the lights, the ambience fade to a faint echo in the background. And it’s not like they had time for luxuries like baths anyhow, “But it’s worrisome. Thank god JD had us study cold-reading. They were testing my brainwaves and all that crap. Just felt like Pellegrino’s suspecting we’ve supernatural capabilities or something. And of course there’s _Pellegrino_. Insisted that we go for a meal or two.” Jensen seemed contemplative. Chad too, was uncharacteristically quiet, and then he’d burst out, “Damnit! Why does the universe enjoy such clusterfuck as this?! When I just got my head right and RISC happened. And now this!”

Between laboured breathes and flushed face, acrimony was blatant beneath vestiges of the torn bohemian façade. Chad hung his clasped hands between his knees, “They said my old man’s deteriorated. Gave half a year. And you guys remember Sophia?” Jared knew who Chad was talking about. Brunette working for Public Health Agency. Chad’s ex.  They’d split right before Jared joined. Variety of reasons, not the least of which was Chad’s “job”. But they all knew Chad still had feelings for her. And detail aside something happened in her current relationship that quite devastated her, “How I wish I could pummel that bastard.” Yet he couldn’t even show up to comfort her. Chad looked up, eyes red-rimmed but not glistening, “Promise me, that if I don’t make it this time look after my old man. And Sophia too, if you’d care.” Jared wanted to reply, their special brand of comfort. But Jensen beat him to it, “I won’t promise you this, because I’ll make sure nothing happens to you.”

x x x

Turned out Jensen and JDM were just on the same flight. Jared was two people away from customs when he saw his teammates get into line. His Polish was thankfully convincing enough even though he had no idea what gibberish his micro-earphone fed. The only word he could remember at that instant before the counter was _Przepraszam_ *. Why he was not even sure whether he got that right. But evidently the somehow Polish fluent customs officer waved him through. As he walked he thought he felt JDM watch him. But when Jared looked back their leader was in mid-conversation with some stranger in an alien tongue.

They did not wait for their team-mates, since their accommodations were not together anyway. JDM probably has the language skills to haggle a cab, or find someone who could. Whereas Jared and Chad were relegated to rely upon the public transport system of metro and trams.

They stayed on opposite banks of the Fontanka river. Walking the frosty streets as dusk befalls, it got a little strange, when déjà vu or otherwise, one gets comfortable enough with the environment to quell the initial excitement, yet this new world remains sufficiently different from one’s natural habitat that vestiges of adventure linger on. Jared had expected to see a pristine scene of grey skies and frozen streams, of buildings of another world. Yet it was not so cold that the river was frozen, only bits of white at the banks not unlike white sand, and patches of translucence that could just as easily been mistaken for shadows of rocks as thin ice. The orange street lights casted a warm glow, reflected upon the river surface in stark contrast against the gradient of Prussian-blue sky.

The streets in fact reminded Jared of certain parts of Finland where they’d hurried through. Yet even with everything in plain sight Jared could not shake off the feeling that something was amiss. An unfathomable foreignness, that seeing is not believing. Words rang incomprehensible in his ears. However as he opened his mind, many thoughts that he could relate to washed over. The lady around the corner worried about her bills. The kid on the steps too nervous to ask a girl out. The kid walking up the bridge was stressed out from school reports. Chad shot him a look of reproach, but ultimately took no action. The skies grew darker, the streets lonelier. They turned into an alley, and all of a sudden it was even less different. Sure the implicit statistics on assault were there. But at that moment it was just the endless deserted path. Just the backlights and the night.

Jared had long since—missions ago—given up leaving his hand against his gun. Because not only did it help with nothing, it gave away the position of one’s arsenal. Because he is the weapon.

Somewhere in the distance there were thumping and cacophony. Bars and clubs were probably open. But those felt like another world, a lifestyle Jared had partook eons ago. Sometimes even deep amongst the crowds there would be a sense of isolation, that feeling of being far removed from the merriment and buffoonery. It was like looking at the world through a glacier. The sense of not being a part. The fear that the slightest blunder had the potential to destroy the illusion of normalcy.

“We’re there!” Chad’s voice had the audacity to be exuberant. Jared chalked it up to sugar-high or caffeine-high or whatever that got him high after the Red Bulls. The place was fairly secluded. According to Chad it just had its soft opening, and they had only managed to book it courtesy of Chad’s local contact. Sure it was not as high-end as what JDM and Jensen afforded, but it was no dig so Jared was satisfied. He shuddered to recall that single time in South-East Asia. They’d veered from the usual course of tourist-saturated cities. Because they were fucking routed. _One night_. The bedbugs bit and cockroaches flew. Red ants the length of a fingernail and most importantly, had a potent bite. Not to mention he had gained a new respect for mosquitoes ever since. It was either Indonesia, or Cambodia. Or Malaysia…really, it’s not like the people looked any different to him.

This room was Spartan in terms of furnishing, but a far cry from Minimalistic. What furniture it did have—bed, chair, table, clothing rack—were all ornate with typical Russian engravings, corners dusted in Gold. “Boss knows Arabic?” Chad exclaimed as he dumped his duffel unceremoniously upon the floor. Jared grimaced on behalf of the newly-laid carpets. _So that was the gibberish JDM spoke._ “Now I know as much as you do.” He shrugged. “So what’s next?” Chad flung his thankfully non-muddy boots by the door. His jacket followed. Jared was once again sincerely concerned for his friend’s personal hygiene.

“We wait for boss and pretty-boy to get settled. And then we wait for boss to issue orders.” Thankfully Chad did not proceed to further undress at the doorway. Instead he gathered his toiletries—though not before filling the front of his bed with clothes and gadgets and honest-to-goodness components of a gun. He saw Jared’s raised brows. “What? You’d thank me later. It can get difficult to procured quality equipment on short notice, even with local contacts. Besides, we’re on a budget.” Jared gave a wistful chuckle. “Surrendering to the throes of bureaucracy”, as Richard would put it.

Speaking of Richard, RISC was for the moment relieved of all and any duty regarding Siren, though Jared remained in contact with the other agent behind JDM’s back. He had an inkling their leader disliked CIA agents in principle.

“They took me for a fool, and a fool I shall be.” He recalled this sentence of Richard’s. Spoken out of context, Jared had no idea if it referred to Siren or CIA, but knew it told of something he had yet to decipher. He re-shelved it to the back of his mind.

x x x

They were set for the first three days.

Day One, Jensen stayed in to monitor. They had hung around the Admiralteysky area, taking “selfies” and walking the city, as “idiot tourists” wont to do. Long enough in the mind-reading business, and one would realise that a forgettable face walking the streets, the friendly person one’s neighbour is…may turn out to be the least of whom one suspects them to be.

It was hard to focus in such a densely-populated area, but the thoughts were rich. Jared was wagering upon his luck that nothing would happen to his nose. Or any part of Chad, whatever the latter’s exertion syndromes may be. Perhaps thick walls could ward off signals; typewriters, cyberattacks. But nothing known to man—nothing but impractical parameters, that is—may ward off thoughts.

They had obtained loads of information potentially useful for CSIS and its allies before they returned to the bar. As for Siren, they got just mayhap one alternate identity. Because seriously, Trenv Enulianom? Also, they had gathered that this guy was in connection with CSIS, and most certainly not _with_ them.

The place they wandered into was popular enough for foreigners and locals alike, though truly sight-seeing tourists were less of a common sight. Which garnered Chad and Jared much unfavourable attention as they barged in in their unbranded jeans.

Foreign enough not to be too rowdy. Russian enough to not feel at home. Very JDM.

The lights flashed, the music boomed. A headache-inducing rendezvous. With squinted eyes the duo found refuge in a far corner of the bar. And after a few shots of the most bourgeois Vodka on the menu they started a conversation with a very patriarchal gentleman with pepper hair and beard, and who introduced himself as “Jamal”. AKA JDM. AKA their ticket to Day Three.

Thereafter they were invited to JDM’s place for a few more quiet drinks.

As the trio went through the room door it was like a switch had been flicked. The entire demeanour of slightly tipsy, silly grins vanished, replaced by high alert and crystal clarity. Though unsurprisingly with a dash of jealousy thrown in. Now would any bureau be capable of pressing corruption charges against an officially dead man? Or were they supposed to function more as a Private Limited? Jared had no idea _how_ JDM earned their income. But the palace before him showed the extent. Between the polished Cherrywood and standalone tub. Out of the window a somehow picturesque cut-out of lofty buildings overlooking cobbled streets, freeze-frame of an old city freshly risen from swampland.

“Any news?” JDM eased himself into the vast armchair before the very real fireplace like some real-life Godfather. Chad plopped carelessly upon the heavenly cloud-like bed. Jared ha a split-second awkwardness of not knowing where to put his hands and feet before following suit. “Well apparently they don’t do things like in the old days anymore. The streets have nothing very interesting upon them.” Chad prattled on, apparently having full trust in their leader’s being thorough in his sweep for surveillance. “Just got this little taste from the HQ area. My sweep says Siren isn’t even on their agenda. And honestly, the top of their list on international concerns isn’t all that different. Cyber-security, economic crisis and world oil supply. South China Sea. It’s times like these that I reckon we still live in the same world.”

JDM turned to Jared, silently beckoned him to supplement. Jared dug earnestly into his memory, “It’s much like what Chad said. However on my part there was a something called case 9583. Just a fleeting thought from some not very high-ranking officer. Low security clearance level, but it’s something from North America. They’d classified it as white collar criminal syndicate who tried to make some contact with the criminal underworld. I caught blackmail. And they seemed to suspect that it’s Canadian rather than American.” JDM nodded, contemplative. Apparently his afternoon spent with “business associates” was more productive, with sufficient insider intelligence to beef up a report that would pique reasonable interest in Speight Jr. A few solemn minutes passed. Without reading their leader Jared knew JDM was probably uploading the chunks of information into his mind. Piecing, rearranging them into some sort of flow chart such that information morphs into intelligence.

The gas fireplace faintly crackled, mimicking wood. The orange-red flames danced, deceptively harmless and benign, dusting a faint blush upon JDM’s countenance. Then that gravelly voice sounded, “I’m going to get Jensen to pick a fight with you guys. Land him in detention. See what he’d get.”

Without so much as a pause Jared slammed his palm upon the nearest surface as he pulled himself to full height. Which was not nearly as intimidating as he had envisioned since the downy duvet pretty much buffered the slam. “Jensen?! Arrested?! Gosh how could this ever end well? Why not me or Chad?” Jared bellowed, staring down JDM like a hippo would to a Nile crocodile in a drying pond. The latter remained unfazed, “Trust me. With that lost-puppy look just now? You wouldn’t last a second.” Jared was about to interject when JDM held up a hand, effectively cutting him off. Their leader shifted in the couch, now fully facing the duo and staring Jared straight in the eyes, “Jensen had experience with the Bratva. I believe you’ve met Alba. Even when Tom was on the team, Jensen had always been able to handle rough jobs.”

“But at what cost?” Jared replied, deathly calm. Yet veins popped upon his neck and forearm. The bright lights casted his face in shadows. “Jensen is no fragile doll. Physical merits only gets one so far.” JDM returned in an equally dangerous tone. “Have some faith in your teammate. Jensen earned his stripes.”

In the end Jared had to relent, albeit begrudgingly. The phrase “Have you spared a thought for Chad?” sealed the deal, for loathe as he may to admit, their normally free-spirited member was not at his finest, from circumstances blamed upon no one but luck. As a reward (of sorts), Jared got to witness “the other Jensen” as Chad so labelled. Gone was the paradox of uptight and reckless violence. Cleanly shaved, crisp hint of expensive aftershave blended with the heady scent of cologne. Those big Barbie eyes, the confident tilt of lips and the slight cant in the hips. It was pure seduction, with a devil-may-care attitude outdoing even Chad at his finest (that Jared had the (mis)fortune of bearing witness to). And he came upon Chad. Which in retrospect Jared reckoned was a smart move. Did little to dampen the sting though. It made the entire “Get your hands off my friend” a lot more convincing. In fact, Jared was not sure how much of it was in fact an act, and how much genuine unbridled jealousy.

So after some tug and shoves, words exchanged, puppy eyes that quickly turned Rottweiler and a broken beer bottle to Chad’s head, they succeeded in their part. It still pained Jared somewhat to watch Jensen being led away in handcuffs. He was absolutely certain the bruise on his thigh would be impressive given how hard he was pinching himself.

x x x

Day Three was the worst. Despite knowing that all that happened was a calculated move, with assurance that Jensen would return to them in under a day. The simple fact that they were _here_ , and Jensen’s _there_ , was sufficient to have Jared sporadically lose concentration.

New riches, young elites. Language’s foreign, tune’s the same. Jared tugged at his stiff new collar, and prayed his actions were not too out of place. Not that anyone would notice much, in the fumes of drugged haze. Sometimes it felt like high society was but a freeze-frame of the early years, black and white films and outrageous hats. His mink coat was by the door. But he did not have much in there. No, his combat knife was beneath his vest. So there he was. Catching half the attention of the room in his majestic three piece—the other half just weren’t interested. Chad had slipped off a while ago. And now Jared saw him, beneath the crow’s feet and moustache. Chad looked awkward in the waiter costume and incoherent Russian. Yet Jared had no doubt he would have been a very different person at the back end.

Their day trips were just “meh”. While it might be surprising how much random bits one could gleam from just _being_ near certain key offices (hint: more than anyone would be comfortable lending on), it was these sort of late-night venues that information truly flowed free. It was a field day for gossip lovers. Jared could feel the corners of his lips twitch. Then a hormone-inducing, husky voice flashed in his mind, and Jared felt sick to the depths of his stomach. He still carried on with his assignment. The bulk of the discussions remained on the Arctic circle, of investments in Northern oil and ports. There were a couple of “mystery investors” who used blackmail as means to obtain their goals, but frustratingly no way of identifying said investors, let alone draw any link to Siren.

Sometime in the night a brunette fell into Jared’s arms. Tall and slim to the point of anorexia. Probably some wannabe model. Jared thanked whoever’s listening she was not his type.

The rhythm in the bar slowed down. Or perhaps it was just that the murmured fragments of thoughts slowed along with the night. His temples twitched, and Jared was tempted to give up. Except his work ethics would not let him.

The old adage rang true, that opportunity comes a-knocking at the most unexpected of times. Jared was noncommittally scanning the crowd when the name list popped up. Initially it was just a few whispers of random names. But Jared’s intuition rang the alarms, so he latched on. There were some distinctly East-European names. Funny how despite his Polish descent, it took only a generation or three for the young to lose the capability of distinguishing certain Polish/ Georgian/ Belarus cultures from Russian. Then there were a few English names Jared was all too familiar with. CIA, MI6, Mossad, ASIS…and then there was a name. “Mickey”, who had connections to the CIA. Although Jared would not be surprised if it were in fact CSIS in reality. After all, to many a layman CIA and FBI would appear to be the only intelligence units in America.

He knew what he had was but a small portion, and this “Mickey” had the full list, probably hidden somewhere. Jared put his champagne glass down with a little more force than necessary. If only Jensen were here. Identifying Mickey would be so much simpler. Now his target was on the move, heading towards one of those abyss-like corridors that stood between dazzling pillars. He could not sense Chad, and JDM was focused in another direction. Instinctively, as though possessed, Jared moved to follow. Scarcely had he made a handful of steps over, something slammed into his mind, blocking his “eavesdropping” like a brick wall. Jared would have prepared for an attack, had it not been for the familiar sensations that told him it was JDM. Jared turned his head ever so subtly, just enough to see that stocky figure out of the corner of his eyes. JDM gave a disapproving frown. Kind of reminded Jared of those long hours on mundane days, when he struggled to make sense of their expenditure statistics.

And now the man was gone.

x x x

Chad re-joined them sometime in the night. And then Jared left with him, not like anyone was keeping track, between the adrenaline and decadence, the privileged privacy of the social elite.

It was a rather foggy morning, and Jared was on tenterhooks. Maybe it was because he could hardly see the buildings three streets over.

He really ought to trust Chad or JDM and their local contacts in bailing Jensen out of whatever ditch the latter dug himself into. The meeting today was not something he could well refuse, after all. Local contacts are a valuable resource, even if their reliability were constantly at risk. Between Jensen’s arrest and the gala him and Chad managed to squeeze in a few barhops. There Jared managed to convince the bartender to divulge some information on the black market. Found someone who would take him there. Which was rather easy once one could read others’ minds.

Jared sought to buy information, and was given the contact of someone called “Punk”.

There was nothing punk about the restaurant in which they met. It reminded Jared of the Amber Room, the golden extravagance that Jared had more or less grown accustomed to. Punk too, reeked sophistication in his expensive three-piece. Mousey-looking with small jaws, pointed nose and slightly greying hair.

The steak was probably high-end. The price tag certainly implied so. But no one’s attention was on that piece of meat. Punk certainly looked like he was enjoying his meal, but one look into the man’s mind told Jared the man was thinking business. It was surprisingly easy convincing Punk we was in fact from a certain chapter of Hells Angels, and this guy Mickey had royally pissed off his president. Punk said nothing. Or rather, he could not care less.

Mickey’s real name was Matt. Punk did not have a last name. And guy’s whereabouts are sketchy. He was going to the Golden Triangle, but may well have moved elsewhere by now. Punk did give him a picture though, after further persuasion with intel on several chapters in addition to green bills.

The photo was of a comely, stylish young man. Around his age, chiselled features and heavy brows. However it was the eyes that captured most of Jared’s attention. It felt almost like JDM staring straight back at him. Even if the shade was wrong, there was just something uncanny.

Punk paid for the meal, apparently happy with how the deal went. Jared remembered being told Punk sells firearms alongside information sometimes. He wondered if this was how Jensen and Alba met.

Jared was not exactly paying attention to where he was headed after, too busy considering the next step now that they had a face to Siren. There was a distant sound of glass shattering. But it was the gunshot that cut off his musings, only to feel the burning sensation of a bullet grazing his shoulder. He instinctively ducked into a corner. Did not realise how long the meal took till he noticed that he was in the dark and they were in the light. “They” being mean-looking thugs who clearly knew how to wield firearms.

Jared just drew his gun and took off. Glad that he had on a dark jacket and comfortable shoes, thanking his stars there was another corner before him, Jared clutched tight to his pistol. Could have just stumbled upon a gang war. Could have been the meeting. Could be something to do with Hells Angels. The possibilities were endless.

Jared saw the muzzle flashes, took aim, fired.

Three bodies plopped. There had to be someone else. And then there was this indescribable sensation in his mind, that someone familiar was there. Jensen. Two more shots, and a barely perceptible shadow slinked across the dark. A hand grasped his wrist, pulled his into a full sprint. Despite the face being obscured by a maroon hoodie, Jared knew this was Jensen. Jared could see ice and frost upon the ledges and sidewalks, glimmering where the lights landed. Their breaths came out in bursts of white clouds. His lungs burned from the cold, dry air. 

All of a sudden as they crossed another lit path Jensen screeched to a halt, knocked Jared aside and followed. That was also when Jared sensed them. Ten odd heads, malevolent intentions. Now in better light he got a closer look at the other agent. Black leather jacket atop the maroon hoodie, dark navy jeans and the blonde’s favoured hunting boots. Jensen looked none the worse for wear, maybe save the fading bruise on his left cheekbone. He hugged Jensen tight, inhaling his scent. It was overtly and uniquely Jensen. Spicy and calming, like a mix of cinnamon and lavender that came with a dash of Sauvignon Blanc. Would probably have jumped the shorter agent had it not been these circumstances.

Only when Jensen handed him a piece of tissue did Jared realise his nose was bleeding as well.

Things went deathly quiet. Their breathings slowed as they scanned the proximity. In his mind Jared mapped out the area in detail, and he could feel people approaching on one of the surrounding rooftops. “I’m going to drop them. Maybe kill, maybe just stun. Run.” Jensen said in a harried whisper. Jared knew it was no question, because scarcely had that sentence ended his mind registered a wave of sensory tsunami crashing over. He barely managed to effect a barricade, then all he could see was white.

As his visage cleared the sight before him was somehow more terrifying. Jensen stood, barely, for he was swaying back and forth, eyes rolled to the back of his head. Jared rushed over, only to have his teammate collapse unto him. He just grabbed Jensen and ran like a bat out of hell.

As first he carried Jensen bridal style. Then realised a fireman’s carry was more efficient.

Between the multiple alleys and poorly lit backstreets, Jared was able to get them both back to his room unseen. JDM and Chad were waiting for them. High on adrenaline and with his head buzzing, Jared entered the room with his dagger drawn. The lit room assaulted his eyes, the florescent bulb now seemed a little too bright. But it also enabled him to see Chad, sitting cross-legged on the duvet, mercifully with shoes off. JDM stood in a corner, where the drawn curtains met the wall.

“What happened?” Jared asked as he deposited Jensen behind Chad. The latter shrugged, “No idea what happened to you guys. But you were gone since morning. When it turned dark and you weren’t back, we grew worried, so Jensen went looking.”

“How many people?” JDM left the corner and was straddling the chair now, arms crossed upon the backrest. The “attacked you” was left hanging. Jared found himself a comfortable spot upon the coffee table, “About twenty-odd, I reckon. They came in batches.” JDM nodded as though affirming something, “Figures. Jensen doesn’t overexert himself this much anymore.” Jared could “hear” JDM think. And aloud he said, “With this many people down on mysterious circumstances, and survivors even, KGB’s going to catch on. We leave, now.”

x x x

The seat was too small. Barely cushioned. Rigid. Jared had to literally fold himself in. He could feel the circulation getting cut off as his legs were stuck in a singular position for too long. Lights danced outside the window, passing trains squares of light blurring into a single streak. Then came streaks where he could hardly see anything, the train like a solitary isle as it pulled along the rail. Repeat.

There were few people in the seated compartment. They could not quite locate the door, and with the train ride being under four hours Jared had to suck in his stomach in a vain attempt to stifle the growls. He was starting to see doughnuts while Chad did an impressive imitation of a gecko on the wide windows as he endeavoured to stay awake.

Long story short, Jensen woke, Jared distributed pictures of Matt Cohen, and they booked out.

Him and Chad, they took the very next train to Helsinki, and they would decide from there. Anyhow they were given 72 hours i.e. three days to reach Manchester. JDM and Jensen took a more complicated route, taking the first flight to Minsk. From there it was either Poland or Hungary before transferring in Germany.

By the time they disembarked in Helsinki it was almost midnight. Helsinki Central railway station was a work of art, one upon which they barely spared any attention whilst Chad proceeded to raid the nearest vending machine. Jared found an empty chair upon which to set his laptop. They were down on their luck. Flights to UK were sold out. Oh there was one to London, but it had only one seat left. Direct ferry was out of question—it took too long. Jared finally secured them a red-eyed flight from Stockholm to Gatwick. With stopover. But as they said, beggars can’t be choosers. Now came the problem of getting from Helsinki to Stockholm, whereby thankfully there were still cabins of Seaview level. Jared got one leaving that very day (for it was already past midnight), the kind with a sofa-bed.

Wintry Nordic sea was just grey. Dark waters and morose fog, it was almost as though there was never really a real “day”. Despite the lack of sunlight it was a refreshing respite upon the deck, as the cold winds banished somewhat the stuffiness that came with being cooped up for considerable hours.

They’d burst into the suite around Russel Square, somewhat recharged from the night on the ferry but harried nonetheless, with half a day to spare. The curtains were drawn. In the living room Jared recognized Jensen’s and JDM’s luggage packed neatly in a corner. Jared headed to the window. As he pulled back the curtain it revealed someone. Jensen.

His teammate sat on the wide ledge, one knee bent and a hand on said knee. The other hung listless over the edge. His Xperia was carelessly thrown on the floor. Jared knelt down, and he could hear a faint and unfamiliar but distinctly female voice from the handphone, “…if you’re Jensen, don’t bother trying to contact me…”

Jensen turned from the window to face Jared. Eyes neither red-rimmed nor moist. But they had a faraway, glass-like quality. Frozen, if Jared may so say. “It’s Danneel. She’s gone into hiding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Przepraszam = Excuse me in Polish (Or so said Google)


	12. High Sea Trade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An entire suckling pig, roasted to perfection. The caramelized skin gleamed under the chandelier light, yielding a satisfying “crunch” as the knife was brought against it. Sweet aroma of succulent flesh oozed out along with the flavourful rendered fat.

Jared knelt before the low window ledge, hand poised to caress Jensen’s cheek. Chad stood somewhere by the door, listlessly fiddling with his phone. In other words, it was quiet, so much so the sound of curtains falling back in place was sufficient in announcing JDM’s presence.

“What is it this time?” Jensen did not even look up. Weariness lined his words. “The new mission.” He helpfully supplied. JDM rubbed the bridge of his nose. Somehow his beard looked more peppered. “I volunteered Jared. You and Chad, head back to B.C.”

One could register the faint water stains on the ceiling. Blink and you’d miss it. The paintings on the wall looked to be of oil, not by the hands of any artist that Jared could tell. The couches looked well worn, though thankfully not shabby. Solid wood. Oak, probably. And Jensen. Jensen looked like he was about to say something in protest. But then he looked over to Chad.

It’s an old adage, that eyes are the windows to one’s soul. Jensen looked to JDM, who held his gaze. There was a glint in Jensen’s emeralds, an epiphany that JDM probably knew about Danneel. He gave a small, grateful nod. JDM headed to grab his luggage.

“Jared, we’re going to Hong Kong.”

x x x

The flight was long. The seats reasonable. The meal portion a little small. Then again, when had airline food been adequate for him?

Jared stared idly at the turquoise logo, doing a little mental gymnastics on the logistics after landing. Probably standard Modus Operandi. Find a hotel, set up the room, canvass for weapons. Off his right side he heard JDM comment on the entrée containing too much sugar.

Hong Kong International Airport. Jared bet Genevieve would be ecstatic had she the chance to visit. Hell, Jared himself was excited. This was a glorified megamall that doubled as an airport. It has got all the essential luxuries—bags, cosmetics, gadgets…most importantly, food. With a food court that was more like a food street. From the iconic dim sum to a melange of Asian and Western fares. One would be hard-pressed to not find something to their liking. Tea with neither sugar nor milk seemed a little strange, but the quality of the brew made it palatable. Jared made a mental note to get those custard buns again.

They took a cab to somewhere near Tsim Sha Tsui, because apparently the exchange rates were good and who was he to argue with the person in charge of their budget?

The hotel was not of Jared’s aesthetics, with its brick-red exterior. But the rooms were decent, a white and green palette of simple elegance. _And goddamned spacious for this city_ , as JDM puts it. Jared still felt like he’s in a closet. Nonetheless Jared hunkered down in the room’s only chair after a speedy bug-sweep. Tucked his spindly long legs uncomfortably beneath the table and powered up his laptop.

For most of the afternoon Jared sat crammed before the tiny workstation, clanking away on various messaging software and only occasionally rose to splash his face or brew a cup of crappy instant coffee because damned jetlag.

By the time JDM’s message came for them to meet their weapons dealer, Jared had already collated a list of warehouses he suspected were in collaboration with Siren. Adding a face to the organization really sped some things up. It was also around that time that the message popped up. It was just an innocuous window in a supposedly secure program, “Jared, are you certain that you want to dig further into Tom and Jay’s story? You, after all, are an integral part of it.”

Jared hurriedly typed a “Who are you?” whilst simultaneously running the tracing programme the tech department had recently installed. Though he didn’t have much high hopes because _how did they even get through the security?_

“Just a friendly :)” appeared in the dialogue box, before it closed itself. The trace returned, IP address scrambled. Not just bounced, scrambled.

Jared could not help but wonder who that “friendly” was. They had to know about him and Jensen, and Tom and Jensen. Had to know he was secretly asking certain specific _people_ about Tom Welling and be reasonably close to the latter, enough to know something about him and Tom. Most importantly, they habitually referred to Jensen as “Jay”.

It’s highly unlikely to be any of their teammates. None possessed such hacking skills as far as he knew, although Jared wasn’t entirely discounting the possibility, until further evidence proves otherwise. It could well be that Danneel girl, whom Jensen was always so unduly concerned with. Or it could be that Misha guy from MI6, who was so unhealthily close to Jensen. Or hell, it could be anyone in Tom’s circle who just knew enough of the Massachusetts mission and somehow got wind of him slipping questions into conversations. The only consolation was that he knew it couldn’t have been Richard or Stephan. He would have known. The trouble with the human mind, was that people so often reveal things without they themselves even realising it.

Jared emptied his mug of coffee and slid this “friendly” into the back of his mind.

x x x

The evening streets were crowded, as befitting of any Asian metropolis. Just people, everywhere. A sea of black, an occasional dash of colour of knit hats and whatnot, churning as the heads bobbed with hurried footsteps. The saporous mix of savoury and aromatic from street stalls choked the air. The Eggette in hand suddenly had a lot more flavour.

The crowd pushed them along.

Thanks to the place’s colonial past, they were just two white dudes walking down a street. Tourists, perhaps, but not the exotic showpieces they would otherwise be in many other places. The man they were going to meet—Ah K, as he was known on the streets—was somewhat of an international player. He came by way of recommendation from one of JDM’s people in South London. According to JDM, guy’s got tendrils in mainland China, but they’re not going to delve.

The meetup was held at some fancy hotel restaurant, a room all unto themselves. The outside of the building, as with many constructs in the surrounding area, was a high-rise that would be scarcely out of place in any metropolitan city. The furnishing was very oriental, wooden high-backed chairs with ornate decorative carving. A large wooden round table, almost empty, of matching design. Jared reckoned it was better known as “traditional” in this part of the world.

Then the dishes started, and Jared retract all his prior complaints on local portioning of food being designed for midgets.

An entire suckling pig, roasted to perfection. The caramelized skin gleamed under the chandelier light, yielding a satisfying “crunch” as the knife was brought against it. Sweet aroma of succulent flesh oozed out along with the flavourful rendered fat.

The crispy cutlet of what seemed to be two entire chicken, deep-fried to an alluring light golden brown, the distinct scent of deep-fried food enhanced by the unique mix of spices within the batter. Mutton was served cold, but made up for its lack of scent by way of its inviting pink flesh and gelatinous quality of its skin and fat. It too came in a gigantic plate. The grouper was steamed, in a sauce which insofar as Jared could tell contained soy sauce, and oil, and magic. This was topped off with fresh finely shredded scallion, ginger and chilli.

And of course there was this cauldron of faux shark fin soup, because guy ran an _international_ business. The flavours of the sea, and the slight hint of tangy and sour as their host dripped a little vinegar into his bowl.

And then there were the numerous dips which one had to match to the dishes. And the various stir-fried and gravy-drenched vegetable with their clean sweetness that cut through the overpowering grease like a gentle breeze.

The wooden Lazy Susan squeaked under all that weight. JDM assured Jared they needed not polish the feast, which of course Jared saw enough commercials to have been aware of.

Add to that mix a potent spiciness from a free flow of XO, one would think their night might very well end with the meal.

The cold dampness upon fevered skin reminded Jared of a foggy late-spring day in New York City. The occasional rogue salty spray reminded him that they were by the sea. The Sasquatch clutched his stomach. A stuffy car ride following a gut-bursting meal was anything but comfortable. Nonetheless he followed JDM and whom they learned during dinner was in fact Ah K’s proxy towards a nearby warehouse. Through the container yard, the boxes stacked like gigantic fortresses, the gantry cranes lorded over them like ominous gates. Further down by the quayside, a few quay cranes stood at rest, like lonely giraffes gazing over the South China Sea.

The warehouse had a corrugated metal roof that made a strange knocking sound when accosted by the wind. The pallets stacked high, and around every corner Jared could see a forklift. Though for such a well-stocked warehouse, Jared could not help but notice that the security was surprisingly lax.

They went up a mezzanine and entered an office. The proxy locked the door, Jared saw no palpable change in JDM, but he could feel the uneasy vibe. They were now truly trapped.

A trapdoor opened, and now they were in an underground dock. A white ferry. It was almost like one of those action films, except they made it to a nearby yacht and back without incidence. And while one couldn’t store some of the larger firearms upon a yacht, Jared thought it was a rather novel platform for simple firearm exchange. For a moment there he entertained the thought that it was all too easy. Because when had Murphy’s Law not applied?

So naturally they’d get attacked.

This time it was just as they hit the floor. It started with shouts of command in the local dialect. And then their company drew pistols and AK-47s and _wow they’d had those on them all along? Who’d have thought?_ Jared barely caught the thought that it was a rival gang attack before the warehouse erupted into a full firefight. He ducked in sync with JDM, seeking refuge behind pallets of metal coils.

His head pounded with the screams of pain that slipped through his mental shield. The sense of shock when a voice previously so real, so alive was so suddenly cut short. Sometimes there’s no registration of what happened, and the presence was just gone. Add to that the occasional bullet that so nearly graze his head, and that was one hell of a recipe for sensory overload. Jared could taste the signature coppery tang at the back of his throat.

JDM’s voice cut through all that haze, like a steady hand that yanked him out of the watery depths and into sweet, sweet breathable air. Jared gasped as he was finally able to block out all the voices for the moment.

And then Jared saw _him_. Matt Cohen. Between the dust-filled orange light streaming through the newly formed bullet holes, the occasional clink of bullet casing upon the floor. Those eyes, he could never forget them. Clutching his just-acquired pistol at ready, Jared focused on Matt. And he heard “trust we’ve got a deal” in a very familiar voice. A voice that reminded him strongly of Speight Jr.

Jared took aim, but someone beat him to it. He “heard” the exclamation of pain in the leg. A bullet flew by, clipping Jared’s hair. Then radio silence. Matt was out of Jared’s range.

They walked back from the restaurant. Jared zipped up his moss-green outdoor jacket as the late-night chill crept through his sweater. “Good thing about this place, we don’t have the worry about the corpses once the Triads’ involved.” JDM said in his quiet voice, hands in the pockets of a well-worn brown vintage leather jacket. A slight opaqueness flashed as JDM’s hand swept past his ear, showing that he had been wearing earplugs for the entirety of this fiasco. A perhaps dangerous move, but each man to his own. Jared dug through his pockets for his earphone case.

“I saw Matt Cohen in the crowd just now.” Jared grumbled as he pulled out his earbuds and proceeded to untangle the cord. JDM hummed in acknowledgement. “It would seem like our friend here works for more than just our contacts.” The crowd thinned somewhat as they neared their hotel. The cold was now even more prominent. Dust danced beneath the orange rays of the streetlight, as darkness drew a curtain over the faraway backdrop of posh high-rises and rundown rooftop shacks. Jared asked, “So we’ve still got this contact?”

JDM grinned as he pushed open the glass door, “Of course. That’s the beauty of RISC.” Jared gave a knowing nod. The beauty of RISC, in that no one could think that they could have gotten as much information as they did. All they needed to do was to find proof to validate anything that needed validation. Dangerous, perhaps. But easy.

x x x

The water vapour escaped in a plume of white as the green glass door opened. Jared emerged, towel over his head as droplets glistered down his chiselled pecs and abs, turning into wet spots upon the barely adequate towel hanging dangerously on his hips. The brunette rubbed the bridge of his nose as he powered up his laptop.

Jared was simultaneously putting on a shirt and opening up his messaging application. His intuition was correct. The innocuous message popped up.

“Hello. Are you there?”

Jared quickly typed a “yes”, an unfounded fear that the other party might go offline and him powerless to stop them. “Friendly” did not have him wait long, “When Jensen first joined RISC…you should have seen him. He was so lost. He was close to his family, much like you. The entire cutting-off thing almost broke him.”

Jared could fill in some blanks. Though the circumstances may differ in detail, he could well imagine the emotional turmoil as one’s entire life was so unceremoniously derailed. That, coupled with what he already knew, made Jared type, “And I presume Tom Welling swooped in at that moment like a Prince Charming?”

“Bingo.”

Jared continued, “And Tom? All he saw was a pretty face, an easy prey?” He didn’t necessarily believe in what he typed, but he needed a reaction.

“Tt, tt, I had much higher hopes for you.” “Friendly” seemed hesitant to back his assumption. “Who knows? Maybe it had once been real. But not even diamonds last forever, much less some whimsical emotion known as love.”

Jared clenched his teeth, then paused for a moment. He was losing his cool, he now realised. Fingers tapped momentarily upon the plywood table before Jared typed again, “So when did everything start?”

“Maybe during the Massachusetts mission. Tom finally found someone whom he deemed could match up to him. Yes, he knew you had potential back then. Maybe earlier, when Jensen couldn’t keep up.” _With that egoistic bastard_. Jared finished off. But who was this “Friendly” then? If he were Jensen’s friend, they were being rather kind to Tom. If they were on Tom’s side, why tell him? Jared typed another line, “So what did Tom do?’

The time on his laptop ticked by. 02:50, 02:51, 02:52…the last message remained his.

Jared wanted to slam his laptop shut. Instead he slammed himself into the bed.

x x x

The red digits flashed with each step he pumped out. Owl City blasted from his earphone, in tempo with his pace. The monitor probably showed about 5km when he hit the red button, sensing JDM in the room with him. Then there was the dull thud of flesh on something dense as the sandbag got a good working over.

Jared had never quite seen JDM spar. There were occasions where the whole team had to engage in hand-to-hand combat, yet their leader never was as hands-on as his other two teammates. Now Jared was certain it was not because JDM couldn’t. His attacks, though not as outwardly violent as Jensen’s, were just as lethal. Punches were like bear swipes, all solid power aimed for the kill.

“How now, JD?” Jared asked. Through the mirror he saw JDM dole out a final, vicious blow, “Do we dig deeper?” He knew Matt Cohen was in Hong Kong. He suspected Speight Jr. may have had communications with Cohen. He still needed to know what JDM knew. The latter shook his head, “We’ve got evidence that Siren’s involved in Hong Kong. I think MI6’s planning to build a case around that guy.” Jared wondered what’s with the “evidence”, then remembered Cohen was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Forensics probably had a field day.

 “I ‘heard’ New York City being mentioned. We ought to take a look.” JDM patted Jared on the shoulder, “Take the day off.”

That was how they ended up on Lantau Island, beneath the serene shadow of the giant Buddha. The soreness in his muscles that was dampened somewhat by that sauna retuned full force as they scaled the seemingly never-ending steps. The stone railings displayed a fascinating skill in masonry, carved with intricate designs that probably meant something. The winds carried the scent of spring, fresh sprouts, new blooms and a grassy chill. In a distance a bell resonated, solemn and pacific. In this backdrop the idea of Nirvana paled, but a speck in the vast ocean of ideology.

Jared munched on his turkey drumstick. It was commendably well-roasted. Thoroughly marinated, crispy on the exterior, juice oozing out as one sank their teeth in.

“First time around here?” JDM asked as he casually leaned against one of the railings. Someone had asked to take a photo with him again. Jared nodded.

“Treasure it. Sightseeing doesn’t typically come with the job.”

There was a moment of silence, which was far more awkward considering the relentless chatting of the crowd that surrounded them. This was apparently a thing about this part of the world. There were just people everywhere. Then JDM added, “What do you think of Pellegrino?”

“A bit of a weird character, but I’d give it to him that he’s professional.” Jared gave much the same answer as he gave Chad, leaving out the testing part because as far as he knew, JDM underwent the same treatment. JDM gave a non-committal hum, which he made sure Jared ‘heard’, “Pellegrino was…quite fanatic towards Tom. He’s a lot more cautious with you. But it’s apparent that you and Tom share quite some characteristics. Be careful.”

Jared nodded. In a distance the bell resonated. Waves splashed against the shore. And one could almost hear the faint call of foghorns.  

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so was debating between all the top universities in the States. Then decided on Harvard because of its proximity with MIT. *shrugs* okay that totally did not make sense but whatever. My logic.


End file.
